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POEMS  BY 
EDWARD  SANDFORD  MARTIN 


POEMS 


BY 

EDWARD    SANDFORD   MARTIN 

AUTHOR  OF  "IN  A   NEW   CENTURY,"   "  COUSIN   ANTHONY   AND  I, 
"WINDFALLS  OF  OBSERVATION" 


NEW   YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

MCMXIV 


Copyright,  1914,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
Published  September,  1914 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A    LITTLE    BROTHER    OF    THE  RICH                                                 1 

PROCUL    NEGOTIIS  3 

FUIT    ILIUM  4 

EPITHALAMIUM  6 

MEA    CULPA  10 

AGAIN  14 

SNOW-BOUND  16 

TO    MABEL  18 

IN    THE    ELYSIAN    FIELDS  21 

A    SECOND    THOUGHT  23 

A    PRACTICAL    QUESTION  25 

ET    TU,    BERGHE  !  26 

INSOMNIA  27 

CIVIL    SERVICE  28 

ALL    OR    NOT  KING  30 


296705 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A    PHILADELPHIA    CLAVERHOUSE  32 

THROWING    STONES  34 

TOUCHING    BOTTOM  38 

HONI    SOIT    QUI    MAL    Y    PENSE  40 

LOCHINVAR    EX-COLORADO  43 

A    MORTIFYING    SUBJECT  46 

MIXED  48 

AND    WAS    HE    RIGHT  ?  49 

BALLADE    OF    THE    GENERAL    TERM  50 

INFIRM  52 

CRUMBS    AND    COMFORT  53 

ASHORE  54 

BARTER  57 

BEGGARS'  HORSES  59 

TO-DAY  61 

OF    MISTRESS    MARTHA:      HER    EYES  62 

THE    BEST    GIFT    OF    ALL  64 

AUTUMN  66 

REMORSE  68 

vi 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

HUMPTY    DUMPTY  69 

RETIREMENT  70 

SELF-SACRIFICE  72 

WHAT    HE    WANTS   IN    HIS  73 

BE    KIND    TO    THYSELF  74 

LOST    LIGHT  75 

DATED    "FEBRUARY    THE   14TH"  77 

LOOKING    ON  79 

REVULSION  80 

FOLGER  82 

GRANT  83 

POEMS     AND  VERSES 

THE    SEA   IS    HIS  87 

WORK  91 

WORTH    WHILE  95 

EGOTISM  96 

BROTHERHOOD  97 

WILLIAM    EUSTIS    RUSSELL  99 

vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

LINES    INSCRIBED    ON    A    HOSPITAL    CLOCK  101 

A    GIRL    OF    POMPEII  102 

GIFTS  103 

CHRISTMAS,   1898  104 

CHRISTMAS,    1900  106 

NEW  YEAR'S,  1900  108 

AUGUST  109 

BY    THE    EVENING    FIRE  110 

THE    CHRISTMAS    LOVER  111 

LABUNTUR    ANNI  112 

TO    CELESTINE   IN    BRAVE    ARRAY  114 

AS    SUMMER    WANES  115 

IRRECONCILABLE  116 

THEY    SAY    SHE    FLIRTS  117 

BLANDINA  120 

AN    URBAN    HARBINGER  122 

THE    CONTEMPORARY    SUITOR  124 

UNCERTAINTY  126 

ABOUT    THE    HORSE  128 

viii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  BONE  130 

SPRING  FEVER  132 

EBEN  PYNCHOT'S  REPENTANCE  134 


VERSES     OF     OCCASION 

RETROSPECTIVELY    SPEAKING  151 

LIFE    LOQUITUR  155 

LIFE    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  160 

AD    SODALES  163 

TWENTY-FIVE    YEARS    AFTER  170 

FIFTY    YEARS    OLD  173 
THE    KINGDOM,    THE    POWER,    AND    THE    GLORY         176 

THE    STRENUOUS    LIFE  182 

WHAT    FOR  ?  189 

TO    PRESIDENT    LOWELL  191 

THE    OLD    STOCK  194 

THIRTY    YEARS    AGO  197 

THE    PRUDENT    FARMER  201 

ix 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE    AUTOMOBILE    SPEAKS  205 

FORTITER    OCCUPA    PORTUM  208 

CHRISTMAS,   1912  211 

TO    AN    AMBASSADOR  214 


POEMS  BY 
EDWARD  SANDFORD  MARTIN 


A  LITTLE  BROTHER  OF  THE  RICH 

'THD  put  new  shingles  on  old  roofs; 

•*•     To  give  old  women  wadded  skirts; 
To  treat  premonitory  coughs 

With  seasonable  flannel  shirts; 
To  soothe  the  stings  of  poverty 

And  keep  the  jackal  from  the  door — 
These  are  the  works  that  occupy 

The  Little  Sister  of  the  Poor. 

She  carries,  everywhere  she  goes, 

Kind  words  and  chickens,  jams  and  coals; 
Poultices  for  corporeal  woes, 

And  sympathy  for  downcast  souls; 
Her  currant  jelly — her  quinine, 

The  lips  of  fever  move  to  bless. 
She  makes  the  humble  sick-room  shine 

With  unaccustomed  tidiness. 

A  heart  of  hers  the  instant  twin 

And  vivid  counterpart  is  mine; 
I  also  serve  my  fellow  men, 

Though  in  a  somewhat  different  line. 
1 


A   LITTLE    BROTHER    OF    THE    RICH 


The  Poor,  and  their  concerns,  she  has 

Monopolized,  because  of  which 
It  falls  to  me  to  labor  as 

A  Little  Brother  of  the  Rich. 

For  their  sake  at  no  sacrifice 

Does  my  devoted  spirit  quail; 
I  give  their  horses  exercise; 

As  ballast  on  their  yachts  I  sail. 
Upon  their  Tally  Hos  I  ride 

And  brave  the  chances  of  a  storm; 
I  even  use  my  own  inside 

To  keep  their  wines  and  victuals  warm. 

Those  whom  we  strive  to  benefit 

Dear  to  our  hearts  soon  grow  to  be; 
I  love  my  Rich,  and  I  admit 

That  they  are  very  good  to  me. 
Succor  the  Poor,  my  sisters,  I, 

While  heaven  shall  still  vouchsafe  me  health, 
Will  strive  to  share  and  mollify 

The  trials  of  abounding  wealth. 


PROCUL   NEGOTIIS 

I  THINK  that  if  I  had  a  farm, 
I  M  be  a  man  of  sense; 
And  if  the  day  was  bright  and  warm 

I  'd  sit  upon  the  fence, 
And  calmly  smoke  a  pensive  pipe 

And  think  about  my  pigs; 
And  wonder  if  the  corn  was  ripe; 
And  counsel  Vhomme  qui  digs. 

And  if  the  day  was  wet  and  cold, 

I  think  I  should  admire 
To  sit,  and  dawdle  over  old 

Montaigne,  before  the  fire; 
And  pity  boobies  who  could  lie 

And  squabble  just  for  pelf; 
And  thank  my  blessed  stars  that  I 

Was  nicely  fixed  myself. 


FUIT    ILIUM 

WERE  you  nurtured  in  the  purple? 
Were  you  reared  a  pampered  pet  ? 
Did  a  menial  throng  encircle 

You  in  waiting  while  you  ate  ? 
When  a  baby  had  you  lockets, 

Silver  cups,  and  forks,  and  spoons? 
Were  there  coins  in  the  pockets 
Of  your  childhood's  pantaloons? 

Did  hereditary  shekels 

Make  your  sweethearts  deem  you  fair — 
Reconcile  them  to  your  freckles 

And  your  carrot-colored  hair? 
In  electrifying  raiment 

Were  you  every  day  attired? 
Was  the  promptness  of  your  payment 

Universally  admired? 

Did  your  father,  too  confiding, 
Sign  the  paper  of  his  friends? 

Did  his  railway  stock,  subsiding, 
Cease  to  pay  him  dividends? 
4 


FUIT    ILIUM 

Are  his  buildings  slow  in  renting? 

Did  his  banker  pilfer,  slope, 
And  absconding  leave  lamenting 

Creditors  to  live  on  hope? 

Ere  you  dissipate  a  quarter 
Do  you  scrutinize  it  twice? 

Have  you  ceased  to  look  on  water- 
Drinking  as  a  nauseous  vice? 

Do  you  wear  your  brother's  breeches, 
Though  the  buttons  scarcely  meet? 

Does  the  vanity  of  riches 

Form  no  part  of  your  conceit? 

I  am  with  you,  fellow  pauper ! 

Let  us  share  our  scanty  crust — 
Burst  the  bonds  of  fiscal  torpor — 

Go  where  beer  is  sold  on  trust ! 
Let  us,  freed  from  res  angustce, 

Seek  some  fair  Utopian  mead 
Where  the  throat  is  never  dusty, 

And  tobacco  grows,  a  weed. 


EPITHALAMIUM 

PHE  marriage  bells  have  rung  their  peal, 
•*•     The  wedding  march  has  told  its  story. 
I  've  seen  her  at  the  altar  kneel 

In  all  her  stainless,  virgin  glory; 
She  's  bound  to  honor,  love,  obey, 

Come  joy  or  sorrow,  tears  or  laughter. 
I  watched  her  as  she  rode  away, 
And  flung  the  lucky  slipper  after. 

She  was  my  first,  my  very  first, 

My  earliest  inamorata, 
And  to  the  passion  that  I  nursed 

For  her  I  well-nigh  was  a  martyr. 
For  I  was  young  and  she  was  fair, 

And  always  bright  and  gay  and  chipper, 
And,  oh,  she  wore  such  sunlit  hair ! 

Such  silken  stockings !  such  a  slipper ! 

She  did  not  wish  to  make  me  mourn — 
She  was  the  kindest  of  God's  creatures; 

But  flirting  was  in  her  inborn, 
Like  brains  and  queerness  in  the  Beechers. 
6 


EPITHALAMIUM 

I  do  not  fear  your  heartless  flirt, 

Obtuse  her  dart  and  dull  her  probe  is; 

But  when  girls  do  not  mean  to  hurt, 
But  do — Orate  tune  pro  nobis ! 

A  most  romantic  country  place; 

The  moon  at  full,  the  month  of  August; 
An  inland  lake  across  whose  face 

Played  gentle  zephyrs,  ne'er  a  raw  gust. 
Books,  boats,  and  horses  to  enjoy, 

The  which  was  all  our  occupation; 
A  damsel  and  a  callow  boy — 

There !  now  you  have  the  situation. 

We  rode  together  miles  and  miles, 

My  pupil  she,  and  I  her  Chiron; 
At  home  I  revelled  in  her  smiles 

And  read  her  extracts  out  of  Byron. 
We  roamed  by  moonlight,  chose  our  stars 

(I  thought  it  most  authentic  billing), 
Explored  the  woods,  climbed  over  bars, 

Smoked  cigarettes  and  broke  a  shilling. 

An  infinitely  blissful  week 

Went  by  in  this  Arcadian  fashion; 

7 


EPITHALAMIUM 

I  hesitated  long  to  speak, 

But  ultimately  breathed  my  passion. 
She  said  her  heart  was  not  her  own; 

She  said  she  'd  love  me  like  a  sister; 
She  cried  a  little  (not  alone), 

I  begged  her  not  to  fret,  and — kissed  her. 

I  lost  some  sleep,  some  pounds  in  weight, 

A  deal  of  time  and  all  my  spirits, 
And  much,  how  much  I  dare  not  state 

I  mused  upon  that  damsel's  merits. 
I  tortured  my  unhappy  soul, 

I  wished  I  never  might  recover; 
I  hoped  her  marriage  bells  might  toll 

A  requiem  for  her  faithful  lover. 

And  now  she  's  married,  now  she  wears 

A  wedding-ring  upon  her  finger; 
And  I — although  it  odd  appears — 

Still  in  the  flesh  I  seem  to  linger. 
Lo,  there  my  swallow-tail,  and  here 

Lies  by  my  side  a  wedding  favor; 
Beside  it  stands  a  mug  of  beer, 

I  taste  it — how  divine  its  flavor ! 
8 


EPITHALAMIUM 

I  saw  her  in  her  bridal  dress 

Stand  pure  and  lovely  at  the  altar; 
I  heard  her  firm  response — that  "Yes," 

Without  a  quiver  or  a  falter. 
And  here  I  sit  and  drink  to  her 

Long  life  and  happiness,  God  bless  her ! 
Now  fill  again.     No  heel-taps,  sir; 

Here  's  to —    Success  to  her  successor ! 


MEA    CULPA 

THERE  is  a  thing  which  in  my  brain, 
Though  nightly  I  revolve  it, 
I  cannot  in  the  least  explain, 
Nor  do  I  hope  to  solve  it. 
While  others  tread  the  narrow  path 

In  manner  meek  and  pious, 
Why  is  it  that  my  spirit  hath 
So  opposite  a  bias  ? 

Brought  up  to  fear  the  Lord,  and  dread 

The  bottomless  abysm, 
In  Watts's  hymns  profoundly  read 

And  drilled  in  catechism, 
I  should  have  been  a  model  youth, 

The  pink  of  all  that 's  proper. 
I  was  not,  but — to  tell  the  truth — 

I  never  cared  a  copper. 

I  had  no  yearnings  when  a  boy 
To  sport  an  angel's  wrapper, 

Nor  heard  I  with  tumultuous  joy 
The  church-frequenting  clapper. 
10 


MEA    CULPA 

My  actions  always  harmonized 
With  my  own  sweet  volition. 

I  always  did  what  I  devised, 
But  rarely  asked  permission. 

When  o'er  the  holy  book  I  'd  pore 

And  read  of  doings  pristine, 
I  had  a  fellow-feeling  for 

The  put-upon  Philistine. 
King  David  gratified  my  taste — 

He  harped  and  danced  boleros; 
But  first  the  Prodigal  was  placed 

Upon  my  list  of  heroes. 

I  went  to  school.     To  study  ?     No ! 

I  dearly  loved  to  dally 
And  dawdle  over  Ivanhoe, 

Tom  Brown,  and  Charles  O'Malley; 
In  recitation  I  was  used 

To  halt  on  every  sentence; 
Repenting,  seldom  I  produced 

Fruits  proper  to  repentance. 

At  college,  later,  I  became 
Familiar  with  my  Flaccus, 
11 


MEA    CULPA 

Brought  incense  to  the  Muses'  flame, 

And  sacrificed  to  Bacchus. 
I  flourished  in  an  air  unfraught 

With  sanctity's  aroma; 
Learned  many  things  I  was  not  taught, 

And  captured  a  diploma. 

I  am  not  well  provided  for, 

I  have  no  great  possessions, 
I  do  not  like  the  legal  or 

Medicinal  professions, 
Were  I  of  good  repute  I  might 

Take  orders  as  a  deacon; 
But  I  'm  no  bright  and  shining  light, 

But  just  a  warning  beacon. 

Though  often  urged  by  friends  sincere 

To  woo  some  funded  houri, 
I  cannot  read  my  title  clear 

To  any  damsel's  dowry. 
And  could  to  wedlock  I  induce 

An  heiress,  I  should  falter, 
For  fear  that  such  a  bridal  noose 

Might  prove  a  gilded  halter. 


MEA    CULPA 

My  tradesmen  have  suspicious  grown, 

My  friends  are  tired  of  giving; 
Upon  the  cold,  cold  world  I  'm  thrown 

To  hammer  out  my  living. 
I  fear  that  work  before  me  lies — 

Indeed,  I  see  no  option, 
Unless,  perhaps,  I  advertise — 

"An  orphan  for  adoption!" 

A  legacy  of  misspent  time 

Is  all  that  I  'm  the  heir  to; 
I  cannot  make  my  life  sublime 

However  much  I  care  to. 
And  if  as  now  I  turn  my  head 

In  retrospect  a  minute, 
'Tis  but  to  recognize  my  bed, 

Before  I  lie  down  in  it. 

I  am  the  man  that  I  have  been, 

And  at  the  final  summing, 
How  shall  I  bear  to  see  sent  in 

My  score, — one  long  shortcoming ! 
Unless  when  all  the  saints  exclaim 

With  righteous  wrath,  "Peccant/" 
Some  mighty  friend  shall  make  his  claim, 

"He  suffered,  and — amavit!" 
13 


AGAIN 

I    WONDER  why  my  brow  is  burning; 
Why  sleep  to  close  my  eyes  forgets; 
I  wonder  why  I  have  a  yearning 
To  smoke  incessant  cigarettes. 
I  wonder  why  my  thoughts  will  wander, 

And  all  restraint  of  mine  defy, 
And  why — excuse  the  rhyme — a  gander 
Is  not  more  of  a  goose  than  I. 

I  have  an  indistinct  impression 

I  had  these  symptoms  once  before, 
And  dull  discomfort  held  possession 

Of  this  same  spot  that  now  is  sore. 
That  sometime  in  a  past  that  ranges 

From  early  whiskers  up  to  bibs, 
My  heart  was  ringing  just  such  changes 

As  now  against  these  selfsame  ribs. 

I  wish  some  philanthropic  Jenner 
Might  vaccinate  against  these  ills, 

And  help  us  keep  our  noiseless  tenor 
Of  life  submissive  to  our  wills; 
14 


AGAIN 

And  ere  our  hearts  are  permeated 
By  sentiments  too  warm  by  half, 

That  we  might  be  inoculated 
With  milder  passion  from  a  calf. 


15 


SNOW-BOUND 

A  law  office;  two  briefless  ones;  a  clock  strikes. 
JAMES 

ONE,  two,  three,  four;   it  's  four  o'clock. 
There  comes  the  postman  round  the  block, 
And  in  a  jiff  we  '11  hear  his  knock 

Most  pleasant. 

Inform  me,  Thomas,  will  he  bring 
To  you  deserving  no  such  thing 
Letters  from  her  whose  praises  ring 
Incessant  ? 

THOMAS 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  James,  refrain 
From  putting  questions  fraught  with  pain, 
And  seeking  facts  I  had  not  fain 

Imparted. 

The  said  official  on  this  stretch, 
Will  not,  in  my  opinion,  fetch, 
Such  documents  to  me,  a  wretch 

Down-hearted. 
16 


SNOW-BOUND 

JAMES 

Nay;  but  I  prithee,  Thomas,  tell 

To  me,  thy  friend,  who  loves  thee  well, 

What  cause  there  is  for  such  a  fell 

Deprival. 

Why  is  it  that  the  message  fails? 
Have  broken  ties,  or  twisted  rails, 
Or  storm,  or  snow  delayed  the  mail's 

Arrival  ? 

THOMAS 

Thou  art,  oh,  James !  a  friend  indeed, 
To  probe  my  wound  and  make  it  bleed; 
To  know  of  my  affairs  thy  greed 

Hath  no  bound. 

The  reason  why,  thou  hast  not  guessed, 
If  storm  there  were,  'twas  in  her  breast, 
For  there  my  letter,  unexpressed, 

Lies  snow-bound. 


17 


TO    MABEL 

UPON  this  anniversary, 
My  little  godchild,  aged  three, 
My  compliments  I  make  to  thee, 

Quite  heedless. 

And  that  you  '11  throw  them  now  away, 
But  treasure  them  some  future  day, 
Are  platitudes,  the  which  to  say 
Is  needless. 

You  small,  stout  damsel,  muckle  mou'd, 
With  cropped  tow-head  and  manners  rude, 
And  stormy  spirit  unsubdued 

By  nurses, 

Where  you  were  raised  was  it  in  vogue 
To  lisp  that  Tipperary  brogue? 
Oh,  you  're  a  subject  sweet,  you  rogue, 

For  verses ! 

Last  Sunday  morning  when  we  stayed 
At  home  you  got  yourself  arrayed 
In  Lyman's  clothes  and  turned  from  maid 
To  urchin. 

18 


TO    MABEL 

And  when  we  all  laughed  at  you  so, 
You  eyed  outside  the  falling  snow, 
And  thought  your  rig  quite  fit  to  go 
To  church  in. 

Play  on,  play  on,  dear  little  lass ! 
Play  on  till  sixteen  summers  pass, 
And  then  I  '11  bring  a  looking-glass, 

And  there  be- 
Fore  you  on  your  lips  I  '11  show 
The  curves  of  small  Dan  Cupid's  bow, 
And  then  the  crop  that  now  is  "tow" 

Shall  "fair"  be. 

And  then  I  '11  show  you,  too,  the  charms 
Of  small  firm  hands  and  rounded  arms, 
And  eyes  whose  flashes  send  alarms 

Right  through  you; 
And  then  a  half -regretful  sigh 
May  break  from  me  to  think  that  I, 
At  forty  years,  can  never  try, 

To  woo  you. 

What  shall  I  wish  you  ?     Free  from  ruth, 
To  live  and  learn  in  love  and  truth, 
19 


TO    MABEL 

Through  childhood's  day  and  days  of  youth, 

And  school's  day. 
For  all  the  days  that  intervene 
'Twixt  Mab  at  three  and  at  nineteen, 
Are  but  one  sombre  or  serene 

All  Fools'  Day. 


IN    THE    ELYSIAN    FIELDS 

WHAT?     You  here!     Why,  old  man,  I  never 
Felt  more  surprise  or  more  delight; 
Who  would  have  dreamt  that  you  would  ever 

Parade  around  in  robes  of  white? 
I  always  thought  of  you  as  dodging 

The  coals  and  firebrands  somewhere  else; 
And  here  you  are,  with  board  and  lodging, 
Where  not  so  much  as  butter  melts. 

Well,  well,  old  man,  if  you  can  stand  it 

Up  here,  I  '11  never  make  a  fuss; 
I  had  forebodings  that  they  'd  planned  it 

A  little  stiff  for  men  like  us. 
The  boys  were  much  cut  up  about  you, 

You  got  away  so  very  quick; 
And,  as  for  me,  to  do  without  you 

Just  absolutely  made  me  sick. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  us  plant  you; 

Why,  every  man  squeezed  out  a  tear, 
And — just  imagine  us,  now,  can't  you  ? — 

The  gang,  and  yours  the  only  bier ! 


IN    THE    ELYSIAN    FIELDS 

Fred  hammered  out  some  bully  verses; 

We  had  them  printed  in  the  sheet, 
With  lines  funereal  as  hearses 

Around  them — didn't  it  look  sweet ! 

Halloo !  is  that  Sir  Walter  Raleigh?— 

I  wish  you  'd  point  the  people  out; 
I  want  to  look  at  Tom  Macaulay; 

Is  Makepeace  anywhere  about? 
Where  's  Socrates  ?     Where  's  Sydney  Carton  ?- 

Oh,  I  forgot  he  was  a  myth; 
If  there  's  a  thing  I  've  set  my  heart  on 

It  is  to  play  with  Sydney  Smith. 

What?     Glad  I  came?     I  am  for  certain; 

The  other  's  a  malarious  hole. 
I  always  pined  to  draw  the  curtain, 

And  somehow  knew  I  had  a  soul. 
The  flesh — oh,  wasn't  it  a  fetter ! 

You  'd  get  so  tired  of  all  your  schemes; 
But  here,  I  think,  I  '11  like  it  better. 

Oh  dear,  how  natural  it  seems ! 


A    SECOND    THOUGHT 

THIS  world  's  the  worst  I  ever  saw; 
I  'd  like  to  make  it  better; 
I  'm  going  to  promulgate  the  law, 
And  hold  men  to  its  letter. 
Be  respectable  and  stand 

Esteemed  of  Mrs.  Grundy; 
Attend  to  business  week-days  and 
Read  moral  books  on  Sunday. 

On  Sabbath-keepers,  every  one, 

Approvingly  I  smile,  and 
Frown  on  those  who  spend  their  Sun- 
Days  down  at  Coney  Island. 

Don't  play  cards,  young  man;   gobang 

Affords  amusement  ample. 
Speak  carefully,  eschewing  slang, 
And  set  a  good  example. 

The  theatres,  how  bad  they  be ! 

The  players,  oh,  how  vicious ! 
The  waltz  I  shudder  when  I  see, 

And  think  it  most  pernicious. 
23 


A    SECOND    THOUGHT 

Shun  the  wine  cup;   don't  be  led 
To  drink  by  scoff  or  banter; 

In  the  cup  lurk  pains  of  head, 
And  snakes  in  the  decanter. 

Ah,  me !  I  wonder  if  I  'm  right ! 
I  say,  "It 's  wrong  to  do  so !" 
As  though,  without  a  soul  in  sight, 
I  ruled  alone,  like  Crusoe. 

Is  it  that  I  am  partly  wrong, 

And  partly  right,  my  neighbor, 
And  that  we  get,  who  toil  so  long, 
Half-truths  for  all  our  labor? 


A    PRACTICAL    QUESTION 

DARKLY  the  humorist 
Muses  on  fate; 
Ghastly  experiment 

Life  seems  to  him, 
Subject  for  merriment 

Sombre  and  grim; 
Is  it  his  doom  or  is  't 
Something  he  ate? 


ET    TU,    BERGHE! 

A  ND  art  thou,  Bergh,  so  firmly  set 
**   Against  domestic  strife, 
As  to  correct  with  stripes  the  man 
Who  disciplines  his  wife? 

Such  action  doth  not  of  thy  creed 

Appear  the  normal  fruit; 
Thou  shouldst  befriend  a  being  who 

Behaves  so  like  a  brute ! 


INSOMNIA 

,  vagrant  sleep,  and  close  the  lid 
Upon  the  casket  of  my  thought; 
Come,  truant,  come  when  thou  art  bid, 
And  let  thyself  be  caught. 

For  lonely  is  the  night,  and  still; 

And  save  my  own  no  breath  I  hear, 
No  other  mind,  no  other  will, 

Nor  heart  nor  hand  is  near. 

Thy  waywardness  what  prayer  can  move ! 

Canst  thou  by  any  lure  be  brought? 
Or  art  thou  then  like  woman's  love 

That  only  comes  unsought? 

Up  !     Where  's  my  dressing-gown  ?     My  pipe  is  here. 
Slumber  be  hanged !     Now  for  a  book  and  beer. 


CIVIL    SERVICE 

Pennsylvania  Avenue 
He  stood  and  waited  for  a  car; 
He  turned  to  catch  a  parting  view 

Of  where  the  Public  Buildings  are: 
He  looked  at  them  with  thoughtful  eye; 

He  took  his  hat  from  off  his  head; 
He  heaved  a  half-regretful  sigh, 
And  thus  he  said: 

"My  relative,  I  do  the  bidding 

Of  Fate,  and  say  to  thee  good-by. 
I  think  thee  fortunate  at  ridding 

Thyself  of  such  a  clerk  as  I. 
Thy  sure  support,  though  somewhat  meagre, 

Hath  much  about  it  to  commend; 
Nor  am  I  now  so  passing  eager 

To  leave  so  provident  a  friend. 

"Light  was  thy  yoke  could  I  have  borne  it 

With  tranquil  mind  and  step  sedate; 
Why  did  my  feeble  shoulders  scorn  it 

And  seem  to  crave  a  heavier  weight? 
Extremely  blest  is  his  condition 

Whose  needs  thy  bounteous  hands  supply, 
£8 


CIVIL    SERVICE 

If  he  but  fling  away  ambition 
And  let  the  world  go  rushing  by. 

"  Indocilis  pauperiem  pati, 

I  must  get  out  of  this  damp  spot. 
Away  !  away  !     Whatever  fate  I 

May  have  in  store,  I  fear  it  not. 
Away  from  all  my  soul  despises, 

From  paltry  aims,  from  sordid  cares; 
Fame,  honor,  love,  time's  richest  prizes, 

Lie  waiting  for  the  man  who  dares. 

"The  man  who  calls  no  man  his  master, 

Nor  bows  his  head  to  tinsel  gods; 
Who  faces  debt,  disease,  disaster, 

And  never  murmurs  at  the  odds; 
Although  his  life  from  its  beginning 

Marks  only  fall  succeeding  fall, 
Let  him  fight  on  and  trust  to  winning 

In  death  the  richest  prize  of  all." 

He  jammed  his  hat  down  on  his  head; 

He  turned  from  where  the  Buildings  are; 
Precipitately  thence  he  fled, 

And  caught  a  passing  car. 
29 


ALL    OR    NOTHING 

T  TAPPY  the  man  whose  far  remove 
•*•  •*•    From  business  and  the  giddy  throng 
Fits  him  in  the  paternal  groove 

Unquestioning  to  glide  along. 
Apart  from  struggle  and  from  strife, 

Content  to  live  by  labor's  fruits, 
And  wander  down  the  vale  of  life 

In  gingham  shirt  and  cowhide  boots. 

He  too  is  blessed  who,  from  within, 

By  strong  and  lasting  impulse  stirred, 
Faces  the  turmoil  and  the  din 

Of  rushing  life;   whom  hope  deferred 
But  more  incites;   who  ever  strives, 

And  wants,  and  works,  and  waits,  until 
The  multitude  of  other  lives 

Pay  glorious  tribute  to  his  will. 

But  he  who,  greedy  of  renown, 

Is  too  tenacious  of  his  ease, 
Alas  for  him !     Nor  busy  town 

Nor  country  with  his  mood  agrees; 
30 


ALL    OR    NOTHING 

Eager  to  reap,  but  loath  to  sow, 
He  longs  monstrari  digito, 
And  looking  on  with  envious  eyes, 
Lives  restless  and  obscurely  dies. 


31 


A   PHILADELPHIA    CLAVERHOUSE 

'TH3  the  fathers  in  council  'twas  Witherspoon  spoke: 

*     "Our  best  beloved  dogmas  we  cannot  revoke; 
God's  infinite  mercy  let  others  record, 
And  teach  men  to  trust  in  their  crucified  Lord; 
The  old  superstitions  let  others  dispel, 
I  feel  it  my  duty  to  go  in  for  Hell ! 

"Perdition  is  needful;  beyond  any  doubt 
Hell  fire  is  a  thing  that  we  can't  do  without. 
The  bottomless  pit  is  our  very  best  claim; 
To  leave  it  unworked  were  a  sin  and  a  shame; 
We  must  keep  it  up,  if  we  like  it  or  not, 
And  make  it  eternal  and  make  it  red-hot. 

"To  others  the  doctrine  of  love  may  be  dear — 
I  own  I  confide  in  the  doctrine  of  fear; 
There  's  nothing,  I  think,  so  effective  to  make 
Our  weak  fellow  mortals  their  errors  forsake, 
As  to  tell  them  abruptly,  with  unchanging  front, 
*  You  '11  be  damned  if  you  do  !     You  '11  be  damned  if  you 
don't!' 

32 


A  PHILADELPHIA  CLAVERHOUSE 

"Saltpetre  and  pitchforks,  with  brimstone  and  coals, 
Are  arguments  suited  to  rescue  men's  souls. 
A  new  generation  forthwith  must  arise 
With  Beelzebub  pictured  before  their  young  eyes; 
They  '11  be  brave,  they  '11  be  true,  they  '11  be  gentle  and 

kind, 
Because  they  '11  have  Satan  forever  in  mind." 


33 


THROWING    STONES 

'  T    LOVE  my  child,"  the  actress  wrote; 
*    "My  duty  is  to  guide 
The  child  I  bore;   and  in  my  arms 

The  child  I  love  shall  hide- 
Shall  hide  from  missiles  cast  at  me, 

Because  I  have  so  odd 
A  conscience  that  I  choose  to  rear 

The  child  I  took  from  God." 

There  is  a  sin  from  which  us  all 

May  gracious  Heaven  guard, 
That  is  its  own  worst  punishment, 

Itself  its  sole  reward. 
And  of  it  social  law  has  said 

To  man:   "If  sin  you  must, 
Go,  then,  and  come  again,  but  leave 

The  woman  in  the  dust ! " 

Ah !  who  can  know,  save  Him  Allwise 

Who  watches  from  above, 
The  awful  hazard  women  dare 

To  run  for  men  they  love; 
34 


THROWING     STONES 

Or  tell  how  many  a  craven  heart, 
To  shield  his  own  bad  name, 

Has  caused  a  woman's  trustful  love 
To  bring  her  lasting  shame? 

To  her  who,  when  the  dream  has  passed, 

Finds  herself  left  alone, 
And  in  her  crushed,  repentant  heart, 

A  yearning  to  atone, 
Heaven,  more  pitiful  than  man 

Who  erst  upon  her  smiled, 
By  love  to  win  her  to  itself 

May  send  a  little  child. 

Then,  if  the  lonely  mother's  heart 

Accepts  the  gracious  gift; 
And  if  the  charge  she  dared  to  take 

She  does  not  dare  to  shift; 
Shall  we,  untempted  and  untried, 

To  ease  and  virtue  born, 
Visit  upon  her  shrinking  head 

Our  unrelenting  scorn? 

We,  who  have  all  our  lives  been  taught 
Truths  other  men  have  learned, 
35 


THROWING     STONES 

And  walked  by  what  celestial  light 

In  other  bosoms  burned; 
We,  whose  sublimest  duty  is 

To  do  as  we  are  bid; 
How  shall  we  judge  a  soul  from  which 

The  face  of  God  is  hid? 


Know  you  the  loneliness  of  heart 

That  courts  release  from  death? 
That  makes  it  burdensome  to  draw 

Each  slow,  successive  breath? 
That  longs  for  human  sympathy, 

Until,  when  hope  is  lost, 
A  respite  from  its  agony 

It  buys  at  any  cost? 

Of  erring  human  nature,  we 

Are  born,  each  with  his  share; 
We  all  are  vain;  we  all  are  weak, 

And  quick  to  fly  from  care. 
And  if  we  keep  our  footing, 

Or  seem  to  rise  at  all, 
'Twere  well  for  us  with  charity 

To  look  on  those  who  fall. 


THROWING     STONES 

And  if  our  hands  are  strengthened, 

And  if  our  lips  can  speak, 
'Twere  well  if  with  them  we  might  help 

Our  brothers  who  are  weak; 
And  well  if  we  remember 

God's  love  is  never  grudged, 
And  never  sit  in  judgment, 

If  we  would  not  be  judged. 


37 


TOUCHING    BOTTOM 

T    THINK  that  I  have  somewhere  read 

About  a  man  whose  foolish  head, 
By  mischievous  intention  led, 

A  sprite 

Had  with  an  ass's  visage  decked, 
That  all  who  met  him  might  detect 
His  intellectual  defect 

At  sight. 

The  trite  remark  of  man  and  book 
That  many  men  are  men  in  look, 
But  donkeys  really,  thus  the  spook 

Reversed; 

The  victim  of  the  imp's  design 
Had  such  a  head  as  yours  or  mine, 
Although  his  did  seem  asinine 

At  first. 

But  Love — I  think  the  story  ran — 
Was  proof  against  the  fairy's  plan, 
Discerning  through  the  mask  the  man, 

Perhaps; 

38 


TOUCHING     BOTTOM 

Or,  is  it  true  that  women  try, 
But  very  faintly,  to  descry 
Long  ears  on  heads  that  occupy 
Their  laps ! 

I  know  a  youth  whose  fancy  gropes 
For  headgear  finer  than  the  Pope's, 
So  him  his  bright  and  treacherous  hopes 

Delude; 

But,  in  the  mirror  of  his  fears, 
When  this  too  sanguine  person  peers, 
Alas !  behold  the  jackass  ears 

Protrude ! 

Titania,  mine,  if  I  could  find 

You  always  to  my  follies  blind, 

So  great  content  would  rule  my  mind 

Within, 

That  even  though  myself  aware 
Of  pointed  ears  adorned  with  hair, 
I  do  not  think  that  I  would  care 

A  pin. 


39 


HONI    SOIT    QUI    MAL    Y    PENSE 

TT  was  my  happy  lot  to  meet 

*    Upon  a  late  occasion, 

While  seeking  of  the  summer's  heat 

Agreeable  evasion, 
By  visiting  at  a  resort 

Of  fashion — where,  no  matter — 
A  maid  whom  there  was  none  to  court, 

And  very  few  to  flatter. 

Her  head  had  not  the  graceful  poise 

Of  Aphrodite's  statue; 
Her  hair  reminded  you  of  boys; 

Her  nose  was  pointed  at  you. 
A  Derby  hat,  the  self-same  sort 

The  fashionable  male  owes 
Money  for,  she  used  to  sport 

As  angels  do  their  halos. 

She  seldom  walked  in  silk  attire, 

But  commonly  in  flannel: 
Not  yet  in  oils  did  she  aspire 

To  figure  on  a  panel; 
40 


HONI    SOIT    QUI    MAL    Y    PENSE 

Because  she  could  not  help  but  see 

She  was  not  tall  nor  slender; 
Nor  did  she  deem  her  curves  to  be 

Superlatively  tender. 

Some  prudish  dames  did  her  abuse 

With  censure  fierce  and  scathing; 
Because  she,  happening  to  lose 

Her  stocking  while  in  bathing, 
Deemed  such  a  loss  of  little  note, 

And  simply  tied  the  plagued 
Stocking  'round  her  little  throat 

And  reappeared  barelegged. 

I  do  not  think  that  for  the  pelf 

Of  eligible  boobies, 
Or  for  the  chance  to  deck  herself 

With  diamonds  and  rubies, 
Or  for  her  standing  in  the  books 

Of  prim  and  proper  ladies, 
Or  for  their  disapproving  looks, 

She  cared  a  hoot  from  Hades. 

Though  competent  to  hold  her  tongue, 
When  circumstance  demanded 
41 


HONI    SOIT    QUI    MAL    Y    PENSE 

Speech,  she  was,  for  one  so  young, 

Astonishingly  candid. 
She  sang  the  vulgarest  of  songs, 

Which  sung  by  her  were  funny, 
And  never  brooded  o'er  her  wrongs — 

Nor  hoarded  up  her  money. 

'Tis  true  this  careless  damsel's  fame 

At  last  grew  somewhat  shady; 
But  if  the  man  disposed  to  name 

Her  fast,  or  not  a  lady, 
Will  in  the  present  writer's  way 

Considerately  toddle, 
This  writer  thinks  that  person  may 

Get  punched  upon  his  noddle. 


LOCHINVAR   EX-COLORADO 

OH,  the  cow-puncher  Budge  has  come  in  from  the 
West; 

In  all  Colorado  his  ranch  is  the  best; 
And,  barring  a  toothbrush,  he  baggage  had  none, 
For  he  came  in  some  haste,  and  he  came  not  for  fun; 
Nor  vigils  nor  gold  to  his  quest  doth  he  grudge — 
On  an  errand  of  love  comes  the  cow-puncher  Budge. 

A  telegram  reached  him;  he  called  for  a  horse. 
He  rode  ninety  miles  as  a  matter  of  course; 
The  last  twenty-seven  he  galloped,  and  then 
Just  caught  the  Atlantic  Express  at  Cheyenne. 
He  stayed  not  to  eat  nor  to  drink,  for  he  knew 
He  could  pick  up  a  meal  on  the  C.  B.  &  Q. 

He  got  to  Chicago  the  second  day  out, 

But  right  through  Chicago  he  kept  on  his  route, 

Nor  stayed  to  buy  linen,  not  even  a  shirt; 

He  liked  flannel  best  and  he  didn't  mind  dirt. 

With  trousers  tucked  into  his  boots,  said  he  "  Fudge  ! — 

Small  odds — if  I  get  there,"  said  bold  Robert  Budge. 


43 


LOCHINVAR     EX-COLORADO 

From  Worth,  the  Parisian  of  awful  repute, 

Had  come  divers  gowns  to  Angelica  Bute, 

And  parcels  from  Tiffany  daily  were  stowed 

Away  in  strong  rooms  of  her  father's  abode; 

But  she  languished,  nor  heeded  she  hint,  cough  or  nudge; 

She  was  bound  to  Fitz  James,  but  she  cottoned  to  Budge. 

But  hark !     'Tis  the  door-bell !  a  symptom  of  joy 
Lights  her  eye — "Ah  !  at  last !"     'Tis  a  telegraph  boy; 
The  maid  brings  a  message;   she  takes  it,  half -dead 
With  mingled  excitement,  hope,  eagerness — dread: 
"  Mayor's  house  on  Thursday,  at  nine;   let  me  judge 
What  next !  only  meet  me  there. 

Faithfully, 

Budge." 

On  Thursday  at  nine,  to  the  house  of  the  Mayor 

Two  persons  came  singly,  but  left  it  a  pair, 

A  man  and  a  bride  in  a  travelling  dress, 

Went  Westward  at  ten  on  the  Lightning  Express. 

A  wedding  at  Grace  Church,  which  should  have  occurred 

At  twelve,  was,  for  reasons  not  given,  deferred. 

The  dowagers  called  it  the  greatest  of  shames. 
The  men  said,  "It 's  rough  on  that  fellow  Fitz  James"; 

44 


LOCHINVAR     EX-COLORADO 

The  damsels  declared  it  was  awfully  nice, 

And  vowed  they  could  do  it  and  never  think  twice. 

"It 's   a  chore  to  get  housemaids;    you   may  have   to 

drudge 
At  the  start;  but — I  love  you,"  said  cow-puncher  Budge. 


A    MORTIFYING    SUBJECT 

WHAT  is  to  be,  I  do  not  know: 
What  is,  I  do  esteem 
To  be  so  undesirable 

And  worthless,  that  I  deem 
There  must  be  something  good  in  store, 

Something  to  keep  in  view, 
To  compensate  us  living  here, 
For  living  as  we  do. 

For  life — oh  life,  it  seems  a  chore ! 

Its  surface  is  so  blurred 
By  cares  and  passions  that  it  makes 

One  long  to  be  interred; 
To  occupy  a  tranquil  spot 

Some  seven  feet  by  two, 
And  just  serenely  lie  and  rot, 

With  nothing  else  to  do. 

I  think  that  when  there  ceased  to  be 

Sufficient  tenement 
To  hold  my  conscience,  then  I  would 

Begin  to  be  content. 
46 


A     MORTIFYING     SUBJECT 

And  if  I  should  be  there  to  see 
My  stomach  take  its  leave, 

I  'd  gather  up  my  mouldering  shroud 
And  chuckle  in  my  sleeve. 

I  think  that  when  the  greedy  worm 

Began  upon  my  brains, 
I  'd  wish  him  luck,  and  hope  he  'd  get 

His  dinner  for  his  pains. 
I  'd  warn  him  that  they  would  be  apt 

With  him  to  disagree, 
For  if  they  fed  him  well  'twere  what 

They  seldom  did  for  me. 

But  when  I  should  be  certain  that 

My  scarred  and  battered  heart 
Was  of  my  corporality 

Not  any  more  a  part, 
Though  I  'd  no  voice,  I  'd  rattle  in 

My  throat,  with  joyous  tones; 
And  with  no  feelings  left,  I  would 

Feel  happy  in  my  bones. 


47 


MIXED 

WITHIN  my  earthly  temple  there  's  a  crowd. 
There   one   of   us   that 's   humble;     one   that 's 
proud. 

There  's  one  that 's  broken-hearted  for  his  sins, 
And  one  who,  unrepentant,  sits  and  grins. 
There  's  one  who  loves  his  neighbor  as  himself, 
And  one  who  cares  for  naught  but  fame  and  pelf. 
From  much  corroding  care  would  I  be  free 
If  once  I  could  determine  which  is  me. 


48 


AND    WAS    HE    RIGHT? 

'M  going  to  marry — not  you,"  she  said, 
*    "But  a  better  fellow  in  your  stead. 
You  're  not  so  bad — not  bad  at  all; 
I  'd  like  to  keep  you  within  my  call, 
But  not  to  take  you  for  good  and  all. 
I  'm  going  to  live  on  yonder  street; 
Do  you  live  near  me,"  she  said;   "so  sweet 
As  I  '11  be  to  you  whenever  we  meet ! 
And  in  my  house  there  '11  be  a  seat 
Where  you  can  sit  and  warm  your  feet, 
And  your  contentment  shall  be  complete — 
Come  !     Isn't  it  a  divine  conceit  ?  " 

She  said. 

Softly  his  breast  a  sigh  set  free: 
He  said,  "Dear  Heart,  it  may  not  be. 
Not  for  the  perfume  of  the  rose 
Would  I  live  near  to  where  it  grows. 
If  not  for  me  the  bud  has  blown, 
I  'd  rather  leave  the  flower  alone. 
Who  by  the  bush  sits  down  forlorn 
Is  only  fit  to  feel  the  thorn," 

He  said. 
49 


BALLADE    OF    THE    GENERAL 
TERM 

EACH  in  his  high  official  chair; 
One  who  presides;   two  plain  J.  J. 
Decent  of  mien  and  white  of  hair 
They  sit  there  judging  all  the  day. 
The  gravity  of  what  they  say 
Bent  brows  and  sober  tones  confirm; 
Brown,  Jones  and  Robinson  are  they, 
Justices  of  the  General  Term. 

I  see  the  learned  counsel  there 
Rise  up  and  argue,  move  and  pray; 
Attorneys  with  respectful  air 
Their  perspicacity  display. 
Serenely  joyous  if  they  may 
Of  justice  keep  alive  the  germ; 
Motion  and  argument  they  weigh, 
Those  justices  of  General  Term. 

That  court  I  haunt,  not  that  I  care 
For  justice  in  a  general  way; 
Nor  yet  because  I  hope  to  share 
With  any  one  a  client's  pay. 
50 


BALLADE   OF   THE    GENERAL   TERM 

The  reason  why  I  there  delay 
And  on  the  court's  hard  benches  squirm 
Is  that  of  Love  I  am  the  prey — 
Her  father's  of  the  General  Term. 

ENVOY 

I  look  at  him  with  dire  dismay — 
Scorched  by  his  eye  I  seem  a  worm. 
"Dismissed  with  costs,"  is  what  he  '11  say — 
That  Justice  of  the  General  Term. 


INFIRM 

"  T    WILL  not  go,"  he  said,  "for  well 
*    I  know  her  eyes'  insidious  spell, 
And  how  unspeakably  he  feels 
Who  takes  no  pleasure  in  his  meals. 
I  know  a  one-idea'd  man 
Should  undergo  the  social  ban, 
And  if  she  once  my  purpose  melts 
I  know  I  '11  think  of  nothing  else. 

"I  care  not  though  her  teeth  are  pearls — 
The  town  is  full  of  nicer  girls ! 
I  care  not  though  her  lips  are  red — 
It  does  not  do  to  lose  one's  head ! 
I  '11  give  her  leisure  to  discover, 
For  once,  how  little  I  think  of  her; 
And  then,  how  will  she  feel  ?  "  cried  he — 
And  took  his  hat  and  went  to  see. 


CRUMBS    AND    COMFORT 

TET  no  man,  irked  by  tedious  fate, 
~   The  worth  of  victuals  underrate; 
But  thankful  be  if  so  he  may 
Environ  three  square  meals  a  day; 

For,  barring  drink,  there  's  naught  so  good, 

Up  to  its  limit's  edge,  as  food. 

Up  to  its  limit?     Yes,  but  will 

Food  satisfy  as  well  as  fill? 

Hear  humankind  responsive  groan — 

:Man  cannot  live  by  bread  alone !" 

Oh,  tell  me,  Sibyl,  tell  me  whether 
A  man  might  live  on  bread — together ! 


53 


ASHORE 

Man's  happiness  depends  upon  the  views 
He  takes  of  circumstances  that  he's  in. 

To  some  it  is  a  greater  joy  to  lose 
Than  it,  to  others,  ever  is  to  win. 

SINCE  our  poor  hopes,  like  vessels  tempest-tossed, 
Are  duly  wrecked,  and  all  illusion  ceases; 
Now  that  the  game  is  up,  let 's  count  the  cost 
And  estimate  the  value  of  the  pieces. 

And  first,  our  heart:   It  was  a  flimsy  thing 
Already  when  we  dared  this  last  adventure; 

And  if  it 's  flimsy  still — why  that  should  bring 
No  added  liability  to  censure. 

A  serviceable  organ  is  it  still, 

That  does  our  turn  in  absence  of  a  better; 
And  very  shortly,  we  believe,  it  will 

As  calmly  thump  as  though  we  'd  never  met  her. 

If  tissues  are  so  delicately  spun 

As  not  to  stand  a  reasonable  racket, 
Their  anxious  owner  has  as  little  fun 

As  Master  Thomas  in  his  Sunday  jacket. 
54 


ASHORE 

Give  tender  hearts  to  those  who  like  that  kind, 
And  gain  in  strength  with  every  pang  they  suffer; 

We  praise  that  sort,  but  with  relief  we  find 
That  ours  is  tough  and  yearly  growing  tougher. 

Our  head  remains  the  same  indifferent  pate, 
Guiltless  alike  of  learning  and  of  laurels. 

We  notice,  though,  with  thankfulness,  of  late 
A  measure  of  improvement  in  our  morals. 

Our  purse  was  always  lean,  so  it  amounts 
To  little  that  it  yet  remains  depleted; 

Though  florists'  and  confectioners'  accounts 
Are  in,  and  payment  of  the  same  entreated. 

We  Ve  lost  a  heap  of  time,  but  being  rid 
Of  time,  one  always  gets  along  without  it. 

Could  we  have  spent  it  better  than  we  did ! 
Another  might;  but,  for  ourself,  we  doubt  it. 

And  we  have  learned — nothing.     We  knew  before 

The  folly  and  the  vanity  of  wooing: 
And  if  we  chose  to  try  it  still  once  more, 

'Twas  not  to  win,  but  simply  to  be  doing. 
55 


ASHORE 

It  was  not  that  we  hoped  to  gain  a  heart; 

That  that  were  vain  required  no  further  proving. 
It  only  meant  that  souls  that  live  apart 

Yield  sometimes  to  the  human  need  of  loving. 

Is  this  the  last?     While  yet  his  garments  drip 
The  stranded  mariner  forgets  his  pain, 

And  rescuing  the  remnants  of  his  ship, 
Already  plans  to  make  them  float  again. 


56 


BARTER 

YES,  there  's  a  hole;   you  needn't  be 
At  pains  to  point  it  out  to  me: 

I  know  it. 

I  do  not  claim  the  piece  is  whole, 
Or  that  its  yard  of  width  is  full: 
I  merely  show  it. 

Fast  color?     Do  I  really  think 
That  being  soaked  it  will  not  shrink 

When  dried? 

Now  that  I  've  got  it  off  the  shelf, 
You  'd  better  test  the  dyes  yourself, 

And  so  decide. 

Cotton  ?     I  dare  surmise  it 's  full 

Of  threads  that  one  might  wish  were  wool, 

If  wishing  did  it. 

Look  sharp;   but  if  through  being  blind 
Some  flaw  or  fault  you  fail  to  find, 

Don't  say  I  hid  it. 
57 


BARTER 

The  price  is  high?     You  think  it  so? 
Well,  this  is  not,  I  'd  have^ou  know, 

A  bankrupt  sale. 

These  wares  of  mine  if  you  despise, 
Some  other  dealer's  merchandise 
May  find  more  favor  in  your  eyes; 
To  hold  mine  over  for  a  rise 

I  shall  not  fail. 


58 


BEGGARS'    HORSES 

T    WISH  that  altitude  of  tone, 

The  waistband's  due  expansion, 
The  faculty  to  hold  one's  own 

In  this  and  t'  other  mansion; 
And  shirts  and  shoes  and  moral  force, 

Topcoats  and  overgaiters, 
Were  things  that  always  came  of  course 

To  philosophic  waiters. 

I  wish  that  not  by  twos  and  threes, 

In  squads  and  plural  numbers, 
Young  women  would  destroy  one's  ease 

Of  mind  and  rout  one's  slumbers; 
But  that  if  by  a  poor  heart's  squirms 

Their  pleasures  know  accession, 
They  'd  hold  it  for  successive  terms 

In  several  possession. 

I  wish  I  had  been  changed  at  birth, 

And  in  my  place  maturing 
Some  infant  of  surpassing  worth, 

Industrious  past  curing, 
59 


BEGGARS'     HORSES 

Had  grown  up  subject  to  my  share 

In  Father  Adam's  blunder, 
And  left  me  free  to  pile  up  care 

For  him  to  stagger  under. 

I  wish  that  some  things  could  be  had 

Without  foregoing  others; 
That  all  the  joys  that  are  not  bad 

Were  not  weighed  down  with  bothers, 
We  can  but  wonder  as  we  test 

The  scheme  of  compensations, 
Is  happiness  with  drawbacks  best, 

Or  grief  with  consolations. 


TO-DAY 

SEE  that  what  burdens  Heaven  may  lay 
Upon  your  shrinking  neck  to-day, 

To-day  you  bear; 

Nor  seek  to  shun  their  weary  weight, 
Nor,  bowed  with  dread,  anticipate 
To-morrow's  care. 

Not  with  too  great  a  load  shall  Fate, 
That  knows  the  end,  your  shoulders  freight 

Or  heart  oppress; 
If  but  to-day's  appointed  work 
You  grapple  with,  nor  wish  to  shirk 

Its  due  distress. 

The  coward  heart  that  turns  away 
From  present  tasks,  with  justice  may 

Forebodings  fill. 

Fools  try  to  quaff  to-morrow's  wine; 
As  though  to-morrow's  sun  could  shine 

Unrisen  still. 


61 


OF  MISTRESS  MARTHA:    HER 
EYES 

'yRANSFIXED  and  spitted  in  my  heart 
*     By  Mistress  Martha's  eyes,  their  dart, 
Which  has  within  me  raised  a  great 
Commotion  and  uneasy  state. 

Or  are  they  black  or  are  they  blue 
I  know  not  any  more  than  you, 
Nor  could  I  for  a  wager  say 
If  they  be  hazel,  brown  or  gray. 

But  when  it  comes  to  diagnosis 
Of  what  the  outcome  of  their  use  is 
Full,  comprehensive  and  exact 
Is  my  conception  of  the  fact. 

When  first  their  witchery  nas  begun 
You  might  be  saved  if  you  would  run: 
But  who  would  look  for  cause  for  fear 
In  depths  so  limpid,  calm  and  clear? 
Too  soon,  poor  fool,  you  find  you  Ve  stayed 
Till  it  'a  too  late  to  be  afraid. 


OF    MISTRESS   MARTHA:    HER   EYES 

Alas  for  him  who  thus  misreckons, 
For  friendly  lights  mistaking  beacons. 
Better  it  were  if  he  had  found 
Clarence,  his  fate,  in  Malmsey  drowned, 
Than  Mistress,  in  thine  eyes  to  sink, 
Nor  make  a  tear  o'erflow  its  brink. 


THE    BEST    GIFT    OF    ALL 

/^VNE-AND-TWENTY,  one-and-twenty, 
^^^    Youth  and  beauty,  lovers  plenty; 
Health  and  riches,  ease  and  leisure, 
Work  to  give  a  zest  to  pleasure; 
What  can  a  maid  so  lucky  lack  ? 
What  can  I  wish  that  Fate  holds  back? 

Youth  will  fade  and  beauty  wanes; 
Lovers,  flouted,  break  their  chains. 
Health  may  fail  and  wealth  may  fly  you, 
Pleasures  cease  to  satisfy  you; 
Almost  everything  that  brings 
Happiness  is  born  with  wings. 

This  I  wish  you — this  is  best: 
Love  that  can  endure  the  test; 
Love  surviving  youth  and  beauty, 
Love  that  blends  with  homely  duty, 
Love  that 's  gentle,  love  that 's  true, 
Love  that 's  constant  wish  I  you. 

Still  unsatisfied  she  lives 
Who  for  gold  mere  silver  gives. 
64 


THE     BEST     GIFT     OF     ALL 

One  more  joy  I  wish  you  yet, 

To  give  as  much  love  as  you  get. 

Grant  you,  heaven,  this  to  do, 

To  love  him  best  who  best  loves  you. 


65 


AUTUMN 

I   HAVE  sundry  queer  sensations 
When  the  year  gets  round  to  Autumn. 
What  they  are,  and  how  I  caught  'em 

Is  obscure,  but  they  are  there — 
Certain  gay  exhilarations 

Half-and-half,  as  Bass  with  Guinness, 
With  a  sad  what-might-have-been-ness 
In  the  brisk  September  air. 

Back  come  hopes  and  young  ambitions 
With  the  golden-rod  and  sumach, 
But  impregnated  with  true  Mach- 
iavellian despair. 

Taking  note  of  changed  conditions; 
Weighing  powers  with  limitations  ! 
Facts  with  futile  aspirations 
Born  of  bracing  autumn  air. 

Now  I  see  myself  grown  famous, 
Bold  of  voice  and  free  of  gesture, 
Grave,  superb,  of  stunning  vesture, 
Flood  with  eloquence  the  court. 


AUTUMN 

Soon  ascends  my  Gaudeamus 
As  I  realize  there  aren't 
Any  facts  that  seem  to  warrant 
Premonitions  of  that  sort. 

Welcome  each  hallucination: 

Welcome,  none  the  less,  discerning 
Common  sense  in  time  returning 

To  obliterate  the  spell. 
As  a  means  of  elevation — 
As  a  sort  of  moral  derrick, 
This  autumnal,  atmospheric 
Spirit-hoister  bears  the  bell. 


67 


REMORSE 


IV  A  Y  spirit  sits  in  ashes,  heapi] 
*  **   I  Ve  said  a  silly  thing, 


heaping  dust  upon  its  head; 

and  now  it  cannot  be 
unsaid. 
What  boots  it  that  to  only  two  the  wretched  truth  is 

known, 
If  of  the  conscious  pair  who  know  it  I  myself  am  one  ? 

I  have  my  doubts — more  doubts  the  more  I  think  of  what 

I  said — 

If,  really,  half  a  loaf  is  so  much  better  than  no  bread; 
For  if  a  person  is  an  ass,  and  duly  bound  to  show  it, 
Cold  comfort  'tis  that  he  should  have  just  sense  enough 

to  know  it. 


68 


HUMPTY    DUMPTY 

THEY  say  that  folks  who  perch  upon  the  brink 
Of  canon  deep  or  awful  precipice 
A  morbid  impulse  feel  as  back  they  shrink, 

To  jump  the  edge  off  into  the  abyss; 
And  now  and  then  some  feather-head  will  dash 
Over  the  cliff  to  fundamental  smash. 
So  often  with  a  man  when  he  has  won 

The  passing  favor  of  a  maid  demure, 
Not  satisfied  with  having  well  begun, 

And  over-eager  to  make  all  secure, 
Blind  to  his  fate  and  heedless  of  his  stops, 
With  mad,  spasmodic  previousness,  he  pops. 

Poor,  dizzy  fool;   instead  of  winning  more 

He  only  loses  what  he  had  before. 


69 


RETIREMENT 

XT  AY,  do  not  ask  why  I  who  late 

•*•  ^    First  in  the  giddy  throng  disported, 

Now  choose  the  solitary  state 

And  live  alone  unmissed,  uncourted. 
Is  it  so  strange  that  sometimes  man 

His  own  poor  company  should  cherish  ? 
Must  I  go  on  as  I  began 

And  dance,  whoever  pipes,  or  perish? 

It  may  be  that  some  stocks  I  had 

At  lower  figures  now  are  quoted. 
It  may  be  that  my  liver  's  bad; 

It  may  be  that  my  tongue  is  coated. 
It  may  be  that  malarial  pains 

Are  of  the  ills  my  flesh  inherits — 
That  fever  rages  in  my  veins 

And  chills  disintegrate  my  spirits. 

It  may  be  that  my  friends  are  dead; 

It  may  be  that  my  foes  are  not; 
Colds  may  have  settled  in  my  head, 

My  coppers  may  be  always  hot. 
70 


RETIREMENT 

It  may  be  that  I  feel  above 

My  peers,  and  think  myself  a  swell; 
It  may  be  that  I  'm  crossed  in  love; 

It  may  be  that  I  will  not  tell. 

I  own  I  find  a  mean  relief, 

Confining  to  myself  my  dealings; 
A  cheap  community  of  grief 

Between  me  and  my  battered  feelings, 
I  shun  the  haunts  of  happier  men; 

Their  mirth  my  misery  increases; 
My  little  bark  is  wrecked  again 

And  I  am  busy  with  the  pieces. 


71 


SELF-SACRIFICE 

SHE  said,  "I  admire  and  approve  you, 
My  intellect's  voice  is  for  you; 
But  when  you  entreat  me  to  love  you, 

I  own  I  'm  at  loss  what  to  do. 
How  I  wish  that  on  one  or  the  other 

My  heart  and  my  head  might  agree; 

I  esteem  you  so  much  !  but — Oh,  bother ! 

My  heart's  choice  is  Barney  McGee." 

Which  the  reason  is  why  dissipation 

Has  ravaged  the  bloom  from  my  cheek, 
And  nothing  but  liquid  damnation 

Has  slipped  past  my  lips  for  a  week. 
Since,  I  hope,  as  depravity  marks  me, 

To  make  him  by  contrast  so  shine 
That  all  her  approval  may  his  be, 

And  her  love  irretrievably  mine. 


WHAT    HE    WANTS    IN    HIS 

T    DO  not  ask  thee,  Fate,  to  bake 

*    For  me  so  very  large  a  cake; 

Choose  thou  the  size — but  I  entreat 

That  though  but  small,  it  shall  be  sweet. 
Let  those  who  like  it  have  it,  I 
Feel  no  desire  for  sawdust  pie. 

I  have  no  wail  for  all  the  years 

I  've  lived  on  crusts  washed  down  with  tears. 

If  I  must  drain  the  bitter  cup 

As  heretofore,  why — fill  it  up. 

But  when  my  cake,  if  ever,  comes, 
Vouchsafe  it  to  me  full  of  plums ! 


73 


BE    KIND    TO    THYSELF 

COMES  the  message  from  above — 
"As  thyself,  thy  neighbor,  love." 
With  myself  so  vexed  I  grow — 
Of  my  weakness  weary  so, 
Easier  may  I  tolerate 
My  neighbor  than  myself  not  hate. 

Take  not  part  of  thee  for  whole, 

Thou  art  neighbor  to  thy  soul. 

The  ray  from  heaven  that  gilds  the  clod 
Love  thou,  for  it  comes  from  God. 

Bear  thou  with  thy  human  clay 

Lest  thou  miss  the  heaven-sent  ray. 


LOST    LIGHT 

CANNOT  make  her  smile  come  back- 
That  sunshine  of  her  face 
That  used  to  make  this  worn  earth  seem, 

At  times,  so  gay  a  place. 
The  same  dear  eyes  look  out  at  me; 

The  features  are  the  same; 
But,  oh,  the  smile  is  out  of  them, 
And  I  must  be  to  blame ! 

Sometimes  I  see  it  still.     I  went 

With  her  the  other  day 
To  meet  a  long-missed  friend,  and  while 

We  still  were  on  the  way, 
Her  confidence  in  waiting  love 

Brought  back  for  me  to  see 
The  old-time  love-light  to  her  eyes 

That  will  not  shine  for  me. 

They  tell  me  money  waits  for  me, 

And  reputation,  too. 
I  like  those  gewgaws  quite  as  well 

As  other  people  do, 
75 


LOST  LIGHT 

But  I  care  not  for  what  I  have, 

Nor  lust  for  what  I  lack 
One  tithe  as  much  as  my  heart  longs 

To  call  that  lost  light  back. 

Come  back,  dear  banished  smile,  come  back, 

And  into  exile  drive 
All  thoughts,  and  aims,  and  jealous  hopes, 

That  in  thy  stead  would  thrive. 
Who  wants  the  earth  without  its  sun, 

And  what  has  life  for  me 
That 's  worth  a  thought,  if,  as  its  price, 

It  leaves  me  stript  of  thee? 


76 


DATED     'FEBRUARY    THE    14TH' 


niEST  be  St.  Valentine,  his  day, 

That  gives  a  man  a  chance  to  say 
What  shall  his  state  of  mind  disclose, 
As  much  as  though  he  should  propose. 

DEAR  MAID  :  I  'd  offer  you  this  minute 
My  hand,  but  lo  !  there  's  nothing  in  it. 
Enmeshed  my  heart  by  your  dear  lures  is, 
But  I  'm  forbid  to  ask  where  yours  is. 

And  why  ?     Why,  dear,  at  twenty-three 
A  man  is  what  he  's  going  to  be; 
Futures  are  actual  in  one's  head, 
But  z'sness  is  what  women  wed. 
Clients  nor  patients,  nor  their  fees, 
Your  slave  at  three-and-twenty  sees, 
And  girls  with  nineteen-year-old  blushes 
Are  birds  he  must  leave  in  the  bushes. 

Yet  somehow  feelings  don't  agree 
With  circumstances:  Look  at  me 
With  naught  in  hand  and  all  to  get, 

77 


DATED      'FEBRUARY     THE     14TH 

Rapping  at  Fortune's  gate — and  yet 
In  spite  of  all  I  know,  and  see, 
And  listen  to,  I  could  not  be 
More  hopelessly  in  love  with  you 
If  I  were  rich  and  sixty-two. 

That 's  all:   It 's  nothing  that  you  '11  find 
Important,  but  it 's  off  my  mind. 
If  one  must  boil  and  keep  it  hid 
The  long  year  through,  to  blow  the  lid 
Off  once  helps  some,  and  one  may  gain 
Patience  therefrom  to  stand  the  pain 
Until  the  calendar's  advance 
Gives  suffering  hearts  another  chance. 


78 


LOOKING    ON 

r~TvHE  dolce  far  niente  is  a  delightful  game 

*     If  only  he  can  spare  the  time  who  plays  it. 
If  one  is  three-and-twenty  and  doesn't  covet  fame, 
And  cares  less  what  he  says  than  how  he  says  it — 
If  one  deliberately  can  (and  never  think  it  loss) 
Earn  women's  smiles  in  hours  in  which  he  might  be  earn- 
ing dross — 

If  one  can  be  content  to  sit  and  watch,  year  after  year, 
The  world's  great  ships  go  sailing  by,  and  never  want  to 

steer — 
If  one  is  not  aware  that  standing  still  means  slipping 

back, 

Or  if  one  's  not  averse  to  retrograding  on  one's  track — 
The  dolce  far  niente  is  a  delightful  game 
For  people  who  have  lives  to  spare  to  play  it. 


79 


REVULSION 

HPHE  very  bones  of  me  rebel; 

1     I  cannot  be  resigned; 
I  am  so  all-too-tired-to-tell, 

Of  being  so  refined. 
My  instincts  are  too  nasty  nice, 

I  'd  rather  be  more  brute, 
And  not  so  easy  to  disgust, 

And  difficult  to  suit. 

My  fun  is  all  a  razor-edge 

And  needle-point  affair, 
That  has  no  substance  back  of  it. 

My  very  woes  are  spare, 
And  decorous,  and  qualified. 

A  robust  grief  to  me, 
With  groans,  and  tears,  and  takings  on, 

Would  be  a  luxury. 

I  vow  I  'm  going  to  learn  to  chew, 
And  navy-plug,  what  's  more; 

I  'm  going  to  wear  a  gingham  shirt, 
And  spit  right  on  the  floor. 
80 


REVULSION 

Cravats  and  collars  I  '11  abjure, 

A  slouch  shall  be  my  hat, 
My  diet  pork,  with  cabbage  (boiled), 

And  beer — bock-beer  at  that ! 

I  '11  learn  to  drive  a  speedy  nag, 

And  laugh  a  boisterous  laugh; 
To  down  men  bluntly  in  dispute, 

Or  shut  them  up  with  chaff. 
I  *d  go  to  Congress  if  I  could, 

And  since  I  can't  go  there, 
I  'd  gladly  be  an  alderman 

Or  even  run  for  mayor. 

I  cannot  stand  it  any  more, 

My  culture  's  not  the  stuff; 
For  though  it 's  pretty  to  be  nice, 

It 's  wholesome  to  be  tough. 
Perhaps  when  I  've  grown  coarser-grained, 

I  '11  have  less  cause  to  sigh, 
At  finding  that  my  fellows  have 

So  much  more  fun  than  I. 


81 


FOLGER 

TJE  died  in  harness,  like  the  brave 
*  •*•    Old  warrior  he  was,  who  dared 
To  lead  a  hopeless  charge,  nor  spared 
His  strength,  nor  sought  himself  to  save. 

His  learning  freights  the  lawyer's  shelf; 
Praise  him  who  played  so  high  a  part ! 
But  honor  more  the  loyal  heart 
That  calmly  sacrificed  itself. 

It  is  not  ours  to  choose  what  prize 
Our  manhood's  hopes  shall  satisfy; 
That  we  must  leave  to  destiny, 
And  work  out  that  which  in  us  lies; 

Content,  if  justly  may  be  carved 
Upon  the  slab  our  dust  that  guards, 
Not  a  mere  list  of  earth's  rewards, 
But  nobler  tribute,  this:   "He  served." 


GRANT 

NO  faultless  man  was  he  whose  work  is  done. 
It  is  not  giv'n  men  to  be  wholly  wise: 
Still  shall  our  deeds  be  sometimes  ill-advised, 
While  in  our  veins  still  human  blood  shall  run. 
But  sundered  States,  now  one  again,  attest 
That  what  he  gave  his  country  was  his  best. 

'Spoiled  of  his  fortune,  rifled  of  his  ease, 

Above  all  ills  his  stubborn  spirit  rose. 

Declining  proffered  affluence,  he  chose — 

Though  wrung  with  pain  and  weakened  by  disease — 
That  his  own  shoulders  should  support  the  weight 
Of  woe  laid  on  them  by  ungentle  fate. 

The  silent  soldier;   not  with  fulsome  gaud 

May  we  oppress  the  chaplet  that  he  wears. 

Freed  from  his  pain,  nor  hears  he  now  nor  cares 

If  men  his  fame  disparage  or  applaud. 
Of  his  renown  be  this  the  mighty  meed — 
He  served  his  country  in  his  country's  need. 


POEMS    AND    VERSES 


THE    SEA    IS    HIS 

A  LMIGHTY  wisdom  made  the  land 
**•   Subject  to  man's  disturbing  hand, 
And  left  it  all  for  him  to  fill 
With  marks  of  his  ambitious  will, 
But  differently  devised  the  sea 
Unto  an  unlike  destiny. 


Urgent  and  masterful  ashore, 

Man  dreams  and  plans, 

And  more  and  more, 

As  ages  slip  away,  Earth  shows 

How  need  by  satisfaction  grows, 

And  more  and  more  its  patient  face 

Mirrors  the  driving  human  race. 

But  he  who  ploughs  the  abiding  deep 
No  furrow  leaves,  nor  stays  to  reap. 
Unmarred  and  unadorned,  the  sea 
Rolls  on  as  irresistibly 
As  when,  at  first,  the  shaping  thought 
Of  God  its  separation  wrought. 
87 


THE    SEA    IS    HIS 

Down  to  its  edge  the  lands-folk  flock, 
And  in  its  salt  embraces  mock 
Sirius,  his  whims.     Forever  cool, 
Its  depths  defy  the  day-star's  rule: 
Serene  it  basks  while  children's  hands 
Its  margin  score  and  pit  its  sands. 

And  ever  in  it  life  abides, 
And  motion.     To  and  fro  its  tides, 
Borne  down  with  waters,  ever  fare. 
However  listless  hangs  the  air, 
Still,  like  a  dreamer,  all  at  rest, 
Rises  and  falls  the  ocean's  breast. 

Benign,  or  roused  by  savage  gales; 

Fog  veiled,  or  flecked  with  gleaming  sails; 

A  monster  ravening  for  its  prey, 

Anon,  the  nations'  fair  highway — 

In  all  its  moods,  in  all  its  might, 

'Tis  the  same  sea  that  first  saw  light. 

The  sea  the  Tyrians  dared  explore; 
The  sea  Odysseus  wandered  o'er; 
The  sea  the  cruising  Northmen  harried, 
That  Carthage  wooed,  and  Venice  married; 
88 


THE    SEA    IS    HIS 

Across  whose  wastes,  by  faith  led  on, 
Columbus  tracked  the  westering  sun. 

Great  nurse  of  freedom,  breeding  men 
Who  dare,  and  baffled,  strive  again ! 
A  rampart  round  them  in  their  youth, 
A  refuge  in  their  straits  and  ruth, 
And  in  their  seasoned  strength,  a  road 
To  carry  liberty  abroad ! 

When  all  about  thy  billows  lie, 
Sole  answer  to  the  questioning  eye, 
To  where  the  firmament  its  bound 
Stretches  their  heaving  masses  round, 
With  that  above,  and  only  thee, 
Fixed  in  thine  instability — 

Then  timely  to  the  soul  of  man 
Come  musings  on  the  eternal  plan 
Which  man  himself  was  made  to  fit, 
And  Earth  and  waters  under  it; 
Wherewith  in  harmony  they  move, 
And  only  they,  whose  guide  is  love. 

Who  made  the  plan  and  made  the  sea 
Denied  not  man  a  destiny 
89 


THE    SEA    IS    HIS 

To  match  his  thought.     Though  mists  obscure 
And  storms  retard,  the  event  is  sure. 
Each  surging  wave  cries  evermore 
"Death,  also,  has  its  farther  shore !" 


90 


WORK 

r"FlHE  Inscrutable  who  set  this  orb  awhirl 

*     And  peopled  it  with  men  and  mysteries, 
With  height  and  vale  diversified  its  face, 
Left  beast  to  prey  on  beast  and  fish  on  fish, 
Geared  life  to  death,  conditioned  each  on  each, 
Sore  price  of  growth,  but  indispensable. 
To  poverty  He  gave  its  warning  sting, 
And  poisoned  luxury  with  seeds  of  sloth. 
Gave  power  to  strength  that  effort  might  attain: 
Gave  power  to  wit  that  knowledge  might  direct; 
And  so  with  penalties,  incentives,  gains, 
Limits  and  compensations  intricate, 
He  dowered  this  earth,  that  man  should  never  rest 
Save  as  his  Maker's  will  be  carried  out. 

On  toward  his  destiny  the  creature  drives, 
Tumultuous,  incessant,  mutinous, 
Usurping  now  his  weaker  fellow's  share, 
Yielding  again  his  own  to  stronger  might, 
Aye  seeking  such  a  place  or  such  a  hoard 
That  he  and  his  the  common  lot  may  cheat, 
And  live  un vexed  by  fate. 
91 


WORK 

Vain  wish  !  fond  dream 
That  ever  fades  on  eve  of  coming  true ! 
There  is  no  easy,  unearned  joy  on  earth 
Save  what  God  gives; — the  lustiness  of  youth, 
And  love's  dear  pangs.     All  other  joys  we  gain 
By  striving,  and  so  qualified  we  are 
That  effort's  zest  our  needs  as  much  consoles 
As  effort's  gain.     Both  issues  are  our  due. 
Sore  lot  it  is  to  sweat  and  not  be  filled, 
But  sore  as  well  aye  to  be  filled,  nor  sweat. 
Ever  to  plough  and  see  another  reap — 
Oh,  that  is  hard;   but  ease  that  stretches  far 
Beyond  the  space  that  labor's  waste  repairs, 
Speeds  to  decay.     Death  lies  hid  in  that, 
And  seeds  of  every  sin  that  rots  the  strength 
And  stains  the  soul.     Better  when  work  is  past 
Back  into  dust  dissolve  and  help  a  seed 
Climb  upward,  than  with  strength  still  full 
Deny  to  God  his  claim  and  thwart  his  wish. 

Fond  fools  with  gold  in  store  whose  end  they 

miss, 

Glutted  with  unused  opportunity, 
Behold,  drift  idle  on  inglorious  tides, 
Nor  ever  trim  a  sail  nor  make  a  port; 
92 


WORK 

Playing  that  life  is  play,  until  at  last 
They  sink  at  anchor. 

Sorrier  still  the  wights 
Whom  poverty's  distresses  vainly  goad, 
Whose  wants  too  grasping  for  their  shiftless  powers 
Drive  not  to  work  but  from  it.     This  too  hard 
They  deem,  and  that  too  slow,  and  ever  seeking  ease 
And  shunning  toil,  nor  gold  nor  strength  they  win, 
But  weak,  inapt,  unskilled,  incapable, 
Their  bitter  cry  assails  the  tranquil  stars 
While  labor's  trampling  hosts  surge  over  them. 

To  our  dim  sense  God's  plan  seems  often  harsh. 
Big  fish  eats  small;   earthquakes  and  storms  destroy; 
Greed  strips  the  poor;   guile  plunders  righteousness. 
But  watch !   see  empires  fall;  see  greed  o'erreach 
Its  lust !  see  power  in  fear  of  rival  power 
Raise  up  its  subject  strength,  clothe  hands  with  skill, 
Teach  minds  to  think;   were  strength  not  powerful 
Whose  need  would  nourish  thew  and  burnish  thought? 
Could  not  the  leader  and  the  learner  claim 
Their  effort's  guerdon,  on  a  stagnant  earth 
Successive  races  round  and  round  might  move, 
But  never  forward.     Wounds  and  wants  and  fears, 
The  seething  urgency  of  discontent, 

93 


WORK 

And  groans  and  tears,  grim  tokens  in  themselves, 
May  help  mankind  fulfil  its  destiny. 

Oh,  Prodigal  of  means  and  men  and  time, 
But  in  decree  and  aim  immutable, 
Our  doom,  black  sometimes  when  we  shrink  from  it, 
Shines  glorious  when  we  face  it  sturdily, 
And  see  the  shaping  and  compelling  hand 
That  leads  who  will  be  led  and  drives  the  rest! 


94 


WORTH    WHILE 

I    PRAY  Thee,  Lord,  that  when  it  comes  to  me 
To  say  if  I  will  follow  Truth  and  Thee, 
Or  choose  instead  to  win  as  better  worth 
My  pains,  some  cloying  recompense  of  earth — 

Grant  me,  great  Father,  from  a  hard-fought  field, 
Forespent  and  bruised,  upon  a  battered  shield, 
Home  to  obscure  endurance  to  be  borne 
Rather  than  live  my  own  mean  gains  to  scorn. 

Far  better  fall  with  face  turned  toward  the  goal 
At  one  with  wisdom  and  my  own  worn  soul, 
Than  ever  come  to  see  myself  prevail, 
When  to  succeed  at  last  is  but  to  fail. 

Mean  ends  to  win  and  therewith  be  content — 
Save  me  from  that !     Direct  Thou  the  event 
As  suits  Thy  will:   where'er  the  prizes  go, 
Grant  me  the  struggle,  that  my  soul  may  grow. 


EGOTISM 

WITHOUT  him  still  this  whirling  earth 
Might  spin  its  course  around  the  sun, 
And  death  still  dog  the  heels  of  birth, 
And  life  be  lived,  and  duty  done. 

Without  him  let  the  rapt  earth  dree 
What  doom  its  twin  rotations  earn; 

Whither  or  whence,  are  naught  to  me, 
Save  as  his  being  they  concern. 

Comets  may  crash,  or  inner  fire 
Burn  out  and  leave  an  arid  crust, 

Or  earth  may  lose  Cohesion's  tire, 
And  melt  to  planetary  dust. 

It 's  naught  to  me  if  he  's  not  here. 

I  '11  not  lament,  nor  even  sigh; 
I  shall  not  feel  the  jar,  nor  fear, 

For  I  am  he,  and  he  is  I. 


96 


BROTHERHOOD 


T^HAT  plenty  but  reproaches  me 
•1     Which  leaves  my  brother  bare. 
Not  wholly  glad  my  heart  can  be 

While  his  is  bowed  with  care. 
If  I  go  free,  and  sound  and  stout 

While  his  poor  fetters  clank, 
Unsated  still,  I  '11  still  cry  out, 

And  plead  with  Whom  I  thank. 

Almighty:  Thou  who  Father  be 

Of  him,  of  me,  of  all, 
Draw  us  together,  him  and  me, 

That  whichsoever  fall, 
The  other's  hand  may  fail  him  not,- 

The  other's  strength  decline 
No  task  of  succor  that  his  lot 

May  claim  from  son  of  Thine. 

I  would  be  fed.     I  would  be  clad. 

I  would  be  housed  and  dry. 
But  if  so  be  my  heart  is  sad,  — 

What  benefit  have  I? 
97 


BROTHERHOOD 

Best  he  whose  shoulders  best  endure 

%  The  load  that  brings  relief, 
And  best  shall  he  his  joy  secure 
Who  shares  that  joy  with  grief. 


98 


WILLIAM    EUSTIS    RUSSELL 

06.,  1896 

[From  a  poem  read  at  the  dinner  of  the  Harvard  Class  of  1877,  in 
Boston,  June  29,  1897.] 

TJ  ARD  hit?     Ah,  yes  !  denial's  vain— 
*  *    Far  from  our  thoughts  and  wishes  too. 
Stripped  of  our  best,  we  meet  again 

To  share  a  cup  that 's  tinged  with  rue. 
Dear  man,  how  proud  he  made  us  all ! 

Our  honest  statesman,  patriot,  mate, 
Whose  very  rivals  lived  to  call 

His  death  a  mischief  to  the  State ! 

With  shining  eyes  we  watched  his  course 

Impetuous  to  an  early  goal; 
A  man  of  an  inspiring  force, 

Whose  pockets  could  not  hold  his  soul ! 
Who  strove  without  surcease  or  fear, 

Nor  from  his  task  withdrew  his  hand, 
Until  the  fame  of  his  career 

Edged  the  far  corners  of  the  land. 

His  head  was  clear,  his  heart  was  good, 
His  speech  was  plain,  without  pretence; 
99 


WILLIAM    EUSTIS    RUSSELL 

Men  trusted  him  as  one  who  stood 
For  honesty  and  common-sense. 

Ah !  not  unshared  is  our  distress, 
Nor  here  alone  is  missed  his  face; 

A  million  freemen,  leaderless, 

Still  wonder  who  shall  take  his  place. 


100 


LINES    INSCRIBED    ON    A 
HOSPITAL    CLOCK* 

OING,  little  hours,  of  Edith,  as  you  pass, 
^   Who  had  too  few  of  you,  but  those  she  had 
Spent  like  a  Queen  of  Time. 
Sing  of  her  as  you  chime ! 
How.  as  she  spent  you,  generous  and  glad, 
To  help  the  suffering  and  cheer  the  sad, 
Time  turned  his  glass. 

*  E.  B.  W.,  ob.,  1907. 


101 


A    GIRL    OF    POMPEII 

A     PUBLIC  haunt  they  found  her  in: 
J**   She  lay  asleep,  a  lovely  child; 

The  only  thing  left  undefiled 
Where  all  things  else  bore  taint  of  sin. 

Her  supple  outlines  fixed  in  clay 

The  universal  law  suspend, 

And  turn  Time's  chariot  back,  and  blend 
A  thousand  years  with  yesterday. 

A  sinless  touch,  austere  yet  warm, 
Around  her  girlish  figure  pressed, 
Caught  the  sweet  imprint  of  her  breast, 

And  held  her,  surely  clasped,  from  harm. 

Truer  than  work  of  sculptor's  art 
Comes  this  dear  maid  of  long  ago, 
Sheltered  from  woful  chance,  to  show 

A  spirit's  lovely  counterpart, 

And  bid  mistrustful  men  be  sure, 
That  form  shall  fate  of  flesh  escape, 
And,  quit  of  earth's  corruptions,  shape 

Itself,  imperishably  pure. 
102 


GIFTS 

THE  imperial  Child  to  whom  the  wise  men  brought 
Their  gifts,  and  worshipped  in  His  lowly  nest, 
Gave  no  gift  back.     It  was  Himself  they  sought, 

And,  finding  Him,  were  sated  in  their  quest. 
Their  gifts,  not  expectation,  but  their  joy  expressed. 

Now  was  the  world's  long  yearning  satisfied ! 
Now  was  the  prize  long  waited  for  possessed ! 

Their  gifts  meant  love,  unmarred  by  lust  or  pride. 
Be  it  so  with  ours:   our  aim,  not  debts  to  pay, 

Nor  any  recompense  save  love  to  win, 
Nor  any  grosser  feeling  to  convey 

Than  brought  the  wise  men's  gifts  to  Bethlehem's 

inn. 

Those  rate  we  best  that  no  return  afford 
Save  the  pure  sense  of  having  found  our  Lord. 


103 


CHRISTMAS,    1898 

THOUGH  doubters  doubt  and  scoffers  scoff, 
And  peace  on  earth  seems  still  far  off; 
Though  learned  doctors  think  they  know 
The  gospel  stories  are  not  so; 
Though  greedy  man  is  greedy  still 
And  competition  chokes  good-will, 
While  rich  men  sigh  and  poor  men  fret, 
Dear  me !  we  can't  spare  Christmas  yet ! 
Time  may  do  better — maybe  not; 
Meanwhile  let 's  keep  the  day  we  've  got ! 

On  Bethlehem's  birth  and  Bethlehem's  star 
Whate'er  our  speculations  are, 
Where'er  for  us  may  run  the  line 
Where  human  merges  with  divine, 
We  're  dull  indeed  if  we  can't  see 
What  Christmas  feelings  ought  to  be, 
And  dull  again  if  we  can  doubt 
It 's  worth  our  while  to  bring  them  out. 
"Glory  to  God:   good- will  to  men!" 
Come  !     Feel  it,  show  it,  give  it  then ! 
104 


CHRISTMAS,     1898 

Come  to  us,  Christmas,  good  old  day, 

Soften  us,  cheer  us,  say  your  say 

To  hearts  which  thrift,  too  eager,  keeps 

In  bonds,  while  fellow-feeling  sleeps. 

Good  Christmas,  whom  our  children  love, 

We  love  you,  too !     Lift  us  above 

Our  cares,  our  fears,  our  small  desires ! 

Open  our  hands  and  stir  the  fires 

Of  helpful  fellowship  within  us, 

And  back  to  love  and  kindness  win  us ! 


105 


CHRISTMAS,    1900 

OD  bless  all  givers  and  their  gifts, 

And  all  the  giftless,  too, 
And  help  them  by  whatever  shifts 

Their  kindly  will  to  do. 
When  seasons,  which  our  hearts  expand, 

Our  purses  fail  to  fill, 
A  word,  a  smile,  a  clasp  of  hand 
Shall  carry  our  good-will. 

Let  him  who  hath  his  plenty  share, 

And  him  who  lacks,  his  lack. 
Give,  each  one,  what  he  may,  nor  care 

What  recompense  comes  back. 
If  only  love  his  heart  shall  swell 

And  kindness  guide  his  hand, 
His  Christmas  he  shall  keep  as  well 

As  any  in  the  land. 

Out,  greed !    Out,  guile !    Out,  jealousy  1 

Out,  envy  !     Out,  despair ! 
Come,  hope  !     Come,  faith  !     Come,  charity  ! 

And  ease  the  pains  of  care. 
106 


CHRISTMAS,    1900 

Come,  Christmas,  with  thy  message  dear, 

And  all  thy  gentle  mirth, 
To  teach  that  love  shall  cast  out  fear, 

And  peace  shall  reign  on  earth. 


107 


NEW    YEAR'S,    1900 

greeting  more  to  one  of  noble  fame. 
Our  comrade  since  our  birth;   our  fathers',  too; 
Into  whose  spring-time  hopes  our  grandsires  came, 

Whose  promises  to  them  for  us  came  true. 
* 
What  struggles  and  what  gains  have  filled  his  day ! 

What  peerless  triumphs  of  a  mind  set  free ! 
What  stubborn  shrinking,  oftentimes,  to  pay 
The  woful  birth-price  of  the  is-to-be. 

Hoary,  sublime,  deathless  yet  doomed  to  die, 
No  other  New  Year's  dawning  his  shall  be. 

Vouchsafe  him,  Time,  such  end  that  men  shall  cry, 
"  Grand  was  thy  passing,  Nineteenth  Century ! " 


108 


AUGUST 

WHEN  vagrant  clouds  drift  in  the  summer  sky, 
And  in  the  heavy  air, 
The  odors  and  the  fruitful  heat  supply 

Sensation  everywhere, 

And  zephyrs  that  caress,  and  sounds  that  lull, 
And  colors,  fill  the  senses'  measure  full, 

Blessed  is  the  man  whose  thoughts  from  effort  cease, 

While  pass  such  golden  hours; 
Who  saturates  his  spirit  with  the  peace 

That  healing  Nature  pours, 
A  soothing,  charming,  vivifying  flood, 
Through  every  sense,  to  prove  that  life  is  good. 


109 


BY    THE    EVENING    FIRE 

IF  mothers  by  their  failings  were  condemned, 
Oh,  what  an  orphaned  planet  this  would  be ! 
That 's  not  its  fate.     Their  loving  makes  amend 

For  all  the  tale  of  their  deficiency. 
Though  tempers  by  the  long  day's  cares  are  tried, 

And  sharp  words  sometimes  fall,  and  tears  ensue; 
Though  hasty  tongues  unseasonably  chide, 

And  little  faults  look  bigger  than  is  true — 
Comes  evening  and  anew  with  strength  equips 

Love's  steady  current  strenuous  to  bless. 
Smoothed,  then,  Care's  lines  by  childish  finger-tips; 

Cured  the  heart's  pangs  by  babyhood's  caress. 
Clasped  in  the  mother's  arms,  close  to  her  breast, 
Wrapped  in  her  love,  the  restful  child  finds  rest. 


110 


THE    CHRISTMAS    LOVER 

'HPIS  love  that  makes  the  stars  revolve; 

*     Tis  love  that  makes  the  world  go  round. 
This  Christmas  purpose  I  resolve 

On  earth  to  make  love  more  abound. 
On  me,  dear  maid,  thy  love  bestow, 
And  match  my  full  heart's  overflow ! 

Nor  gems  nor  gear  to  thee  I  bring; 
Nor  gauds  nor  merchandises  rare. 
Love's  offerings  I  may  not  sing, 
But  love  itself  I  have  to  spare 

In  boundless  store,  and  all  for  thee, 
If  but  thy  heart  responds  to  me. 


Ill 


LABUNTUR    ANNI 

T  OST  man !     Lost  man ! 

*— '   People,  have  you  met  him? 

Idle  fellow;   loath  to  delve, 

Indisposed  to  scheme. 
Liked  too  well  to  shirk  his  task. 

When  circumstances  let  him; 
Loved  to  sit  about  and  loaf, 

And  strum  the  strings  and  dream. 

What  he  dreamt  of,  Heaven  knows ! 

Love  and  faith  and  beauty — 
Towers  that  glittered  in  the  sun — 

Vales  of  sheltered  peace. 
Gone  is  he  this  twenty  years; 

Baffling  all  pursuit,  he 
Loiters — where  ?     While  fast  on  me 

The  sober  years  increase. 

Lost  man !    Lost  man ! 

People,  have  you  met  him  ? 
Meditative-seeming  chap  of — 

Maybe — twenty-three  ? 


LABUNTUR  ANNI 

Good  riddance,  very  probably, 
And  yet  I  can't  forget  him. 

I  wish  I  had  him  back  to  dream 
My  Christmas  dream  for  me. 


113 


TO  CELESTINE  IN  BRAVE 
ARRAY 

QHIELDED  and  hid  by  such  a  panoply; 
^   Garbed  for  defence;  feathered  to  fortify 

And  add  to  stature; 
Oh,  but  it  seems  a  far,  far  cry 

From  thee  to  nature ! 

Bless  thy  capitulating  eyes,  whose  ray 
Out  of  this  fort  of  raiment  finds  a  way 

To  prove  thee  human, 
By  signals  sure,  that  to  my  signal  say, 

This  is  a  woman ! 


114 


AS    SUMMER    WANES 

1    DROPPED  a  seed  in  a  cold,  cold  heart 
Far  back  in  the  early  spring; 
I  Jve  tried  and  tried  to  make  it  start, 
Oh,  I  Ve  tried  like  anything! 

The  garden  flowers  that  the  sun  has  freed 

With  bloom  are  all  areek. 
Ah,  when  shall  a  bud  from  that  little  seed 

Blush  pink  in  my  true  love's  cheek? 


115 


IRRECONCILABLE 

MALIGNANTS  always,  they  adjust 
Their  stings  to  needs  of  different  days, 
As  long  as  censure  harmed,  they  cussed, 
When  praise  is  hurtfuller,  they  praise. 


116 


THEY    SAY    SHE    FLIRTS 

HPHEY  say  she  flirts;   sore  news  that  she 

*      Should  flirt  at  all  and  not  with  me. 
Sam  Rogers — so  the  tale  expands — 
Has  gone  for  good  to  foreign  lands, 
And  left  her  free  to  go  and  live 
In  whichsoever  State  will  give 
Release  from  matrimonial  gyves 
With  least  display  of  jarring  lives. 
The  trouble?     Oh,  some  say  Sam  beat  her. 
But  others  claim  that  what's  the  matter 
Is  that  he  didn't.     Some,  again, 
Hear  rumors  about  "other  men," 
And  add,  explaining  all  that 's  hid — 
"She  flirts;   you  know  she  always  did." 

Flirt !     Well,  perhaps  she  did,  and  yet 
It  seems  too  bad  that  Sam  should  let 
Such  coquetry  as  hers  advance 
To  such  calamitous  mischance. 
Her  smiles  on  mankind  to  confer 
Comes  just  as  natural  to  her 
As  to  the  sun  in  shining  mood 
117 


THEY    SAY    SHE    FLIRTS 

To  warm  the  evil  and  the  good. 
Are  there  not  flowers  that  bloom  and  blush, 
Sweet-scented,  on  a  thorny  bush, 
Whose  nature  'tis,  not  thinking  wrong, 
To  every  bee  that  comes  along 
To  give  some  honey?     But  for  these 
'Twould  be  short  commons  for  the  bees. 
And  other  splendid  blooms  there  are, 
Gorgeous  to  gaze  on  from  afar, 
But  scentless;   ravishing  to  see, 
But  without  sweets  to  tempt  a  bee. 
Getting  a  rose,  Sam  should  have  grown 
Sharp  thorns  enough  to  keep  his  own, 
Leaving  the  world  some  usufruct 
Of  sweetness  from  his  rose  unplucked. 
Or  else,  if  it  were  his  desire 
That  everybody  should  admire, 
But  none  appreciate  his  prize, 
Save  by  the  tribute  of  their  eyes, 
'Twere  better  if  he  had  become 
The  stalk  of  a  chrysanthemum, 
That  needs  no  thorns  and  safely  grows, 
Without  alluring  bee  or  nose. 
Poor  Sam !     What  thorns  he  had  the  power 
To  grow,  have  pierced  his  own  sweet  flower 
118 


THEY    SAY    SHE    FLIRTS 

Till,  of  that  gracious  bloom  bereft, 
His  thorns  are  all  that  he  has  left. 

Oh,  bootless  conquest,  to  be  bold 
And  win  a  maid  one  cannot  hold ! 
Oh,  wrack  to  her,  and  woe  and  pain, 
To  be  once  won,  then  lost  again ! 
Oh,  sharp  aforesaid  pang,  to  see 
Her  flirt  at  all,  and  not  with  me ! 
One  cure  for  all,  and  only  one — 
To  get  the  whole  black  snarl  undone — 
To  call  Odysseus  back  once  more, 
Shoo  all  the  suitors  from  the  door, 
And  trim  the  thorns  of  misplaced  score, 
And  spray  the  rose  with  hellebore, 
And  gag  the  gossips  who  'd  deplore, 
Or  carp  at  what  had  gone  before ! 
Ah,  those  were  services  that  would 
Befit  a  friend,  if  one  but  could! 
To  stand  compassioning  her  plight 
Avails  no  jot  to  set  her  right. 
Yet  far  more  pleased  were  I  to  see 
Her  flirt  no  more,  than  e'en  with  me. 


119 


BLANDINA 

BLANDINA'Snice;   Blandina 's  fat; 
Joyous,  and  sane  and  sound  and  sweet, 
And  handsome  too,  and  all  else  that 
In  persons  of  her  years  is  meet. 

Behold  Blandina ! 
She  's  alive,  and  testifies 
With  all  the  emphasis  that  lies 
In  busy  hands  and  dancing  eyes 

That  life  's  a  prize — 
That  all  the  mischief  that  provokes 
Doubt  in  the  matter  lies  in  folks, 
And  that,  provided  folks  are  fit, 
Life  's  not  a  failure — not  a  bit. 

Blandina  loves  a  picture-book, 
Blandina  dearly  loves  a  boy; 
She  loves  her  dinner,  loves  the  cook, 

Her  nurse,  her  doll,  her  brother's  toy; 
And  best  of  all  she  loves  a  joke, 

And  laughs  at  it. 
And  laughing  at  it  testifies 
With  all  the  emphasis  that  lies 
120 


BLANDINA 

In  joyous  tones  and  beaming  eyes, 

That  life  's  a  prize — 
That  all  the  mischief  that  provokes 
Doubt  in  the  matter  lies  in  folks, 
And  that,  provided  folks  are  fit, 
Life  's  not  a  failure — not  a  bit. 


121 


AN    URBAN    HARBINGER 

TN  the  sweet  country,  as  the  spring's 
*    Advance  decks  out  the  scenery, 
And  limns  with  hues  the  colored  things 
And  gives  the  greens  their  greenery, 
I  love  to  watch  when  I  am  there 
Each  little  step  of  Nature's  care; 
The  wiles  with  which  she  goes  about 
To  coax  the  shivering  crocus  out, 
And,  day  by  day,  succeeding  troops 
Of  blooms,  to  marshal  in  their  groups. 

In  town,  it 's  different !     All 's  wrought  out 

With  least  of  her  complicity, 
By  man-power,  helped,  as  I  misdoubt, 

By  steam  and  electricity. 
The  bed  that  yesterday  was  snow 
To-morrow's  plants,  set  all  arow; 
You  press  a  button  and  they  blow — 
Just  watch  them  and  you  '11  see  it 's  so. 
I  'm  told,  too,  that  in  open  sight 
The  park  men  turn  them  off  at  night. 


AN    URBAN    HARBINGER 

You  can't  rely  on  city  plants, 

Whose  habits  have  been  tampered  with. 
I  always  look  at  them  askance. 

Such  culture  as  they  're  pampered  with 
Might  well  their  little  minds  upset, 
Confuse  their  dates,  make  them  forget 
The  calendar,  their  proper  times 
As  set  by  use  and  nursery  rhymes — 
All,  all,  except,  come  sun,  come  cold, 
They  're  bound  to  blossom  when  they  're  told. 

I  trust  them  not,  but  when  it 's  fair 

I  note  in  garb  delectable 
Sophronia  driving  out  for  air 

With  parent  most  respectable. 
And  when  she  leaves  her  furs  at  home 
I  say  the  season  's  ripening  some. 
Successive  hats,  new  brought  from  France, 
Denote  to  me  the  sun's  advance, 
And,  when  her  parasols  appear, 
I  cry,  "Now  bless  me !  summer  's  here." 


123 


THE    CONTEMPORARY    SUITOR 

r  I  MME  was  that  Strephon,  when  he  found 

*•     A  Chloe  to  his  mind, 
Sought  not  how  Dun  reported  her, 
Nor  lagged  while  Time  distorted  her, 
But  rushed  right  in  andv  courted  her, 
As  Natilre  had  designed. 

It 's  different  now;   my  Lucy,  there, 

How  gladly  would  I  woo ! 
But  shapes  of  such  monstrosity 
Confront  with  such  ferocity 
My  impecuniosity, 

What  is  a  man  to  do? 

Strephon  and  Chloe  had  a  hut, 

And  though,  about  the  door, 
The  wolf  might  raise  his  serenade, 
No  latter-day  menagerie  bayed 
Its  warning,  grim,  to  man  and  maid: 

"Wed  not  if  ye  are  poor!" 

"My  goats,*'  might  Strephon  say,  "will  yield 
Us  milk,  our  vineyard  wine; 


THE    CONTEMPORARY    SUITOR 

By  olive  groves  my  cot  is  hid, 
No  pressing  wants  our  joy  forbid, 
And  I  can  always  kill  a  kid 
When  people  come  to  dine." 

But  I,  what  monsters  must  I  face 

When  I  for  Lucy  sue ! 
What  landlords  roaring  for  their  rent ! 
What  troops  of  duns  by  grocers  sent, 
And  shapes  of  want  and  discontent 

Calamitous  to  view! 

Stay,  Lucy,  stay !     I  'm  bold  and  stout, 

I  '11  rout  the  grisly  crew. 
Be  constant,  love !  and  hope  and  wait, 
And  by  the  time  you  're  thirty-eight 
I  may,  perhaps,  have  conquered  Fate, 
And  when  I  've  won  the  right  to  mate, 
If  you  're  not  too  much  out  of  date, 

I  '11  surely  mate  with  you ! 


125 


UNCERTAINTY 

NOW  that  again  the  nearing  sun  slants  warm  each 
southern  slope  on, 

Belinda,  of  a  sudden,  leaves  the  noisy  town  behind, 
And  slowly  fares  across  the  fields  (with  rubbers,  let  us 

hope,  on), 

While  shadows  on  her  forehead  tell  of  something  on 
her  mind. 


What  is  it  in  the  spring-time  drives  a  maid  to  meditation  ? 
What  brings  her  out  to  tramp  the  fields  in  chosen 

solitude  ? 

Some  matter  of  finance,  or  faith,  or  heart,  or  station  ? 
It  must  be  what  would  all  these  four  and  most  things 
else  include. 

Oh,  what  is  man,  Belinda  dear,  that  you  are  mindful  of 

him? 
Caressed  of  fortune,  can  it  be  there  's  anything  you 

lack? 
Ay,  there  's  the  rub !  so  much  to  lose — so  great  a  risk  to 

love  him ! 

And  yet,  who  dares  not  love  may  miss  what  never  may 
come  back ! 

126 


UNCERTAINTY 

Take  heed,  Belinda !     Life  is  long,  with  many  a  snare  to 

gin  him. 
Be  sure  he  's  straight,  as  gallants  go,  and  sound  and 

sane  and  true; 

Be  sure  he  has  withal  the  saving  streak  of  iron  in  him 
To  make  him  deaf  when  sirens  sing,  and  calm  when 
notes  fall  due  J 

Wise  choice  to  you,  Belinda !    Man  's  no  easy  thing  to 

measure, 
For  now  and  then  he  justifies  the  shape  he  's  moulded 

in; 

And  then  again  he  doesn't:    still,  an  able  woman's  lei- 
sure 

May  find  worse  use  than  steering  him,  and  helping 
him  to  win. 


127 


ABOUT    THE    HORSE 

WHAT  will  not  men  consent  to  do 
For  to  improve  the  horse's  breed, 
And  make  him  comelier  to  view, 

And  mend  his  gait  and  lift  his  speed ! 
Supreme  the  work !     Nor  time,  nor  gold, 

Nor  skill,  nor  strategy  they  stint, 
From  long  before  the  colt  is  foaled 
Until  the  veteran's  final  sprint. 

Whatever  is  there  about  Horse 

That  stirs  this  tireless  zeal  in  man 
To  make  him  do  a  stated  course 

A  little  faster  than  he  can? 
The  locomotive  long  ago 

Upset  the  claim  that  he  was  fast; 
On  common  roads  the  automo- 

Bile  has  him  hopelessly  outclassed. 

Good  animal  to  ride,  to  plough, 
Or  to  embellish  rural  scenes; 

But  if  you  really  want  to  go, 
He  isn't  in  it  with  machines. 
128 


ABOUT    THE    HORSE 

And  yet  the  brains  of  men  still  buzz 
With  zeal  the  horse's  breed  to  bless, 

And  call  it  bettered  when  he  does 
His  mile  in  hah7  a  second  less. 

The  tracks  they  build !  the  crowds  they  lure ! 

The  Legislatures  they  enthrall; 
Protesting  that  their  aims  are  pure, 

And  mostly  agricultural ! 
Queer,  isn't  it  ?  that  equine  weal 

Should  seem  so  geared  to  human  ruth. 
Do  men  dissemble  what  they  feel  ? 

They  like  a  horse-race,  that 's  the  truth. 

They  always  did;   they  always  will — 

Some  of  them,  anyhow — and  risk 
A  wager  on  it,  or  a  spill, 

And  reck  not,  so  the  pace  be  brisk. 
Best  was  the  good  old  rural  way, 

Afar  from  cops  and  pool-rooms,  too, 
When  John  and  James,  each  in  his  sleigh, 

Debated  what  their  nags  could  do. 


129 


THE    REVOLT    OF    THE    BONE 

IV  /I  AN  being  shaped  and  complete  ! 
*  ^  1   Shivered  as  life  through  him  blew; 
Went  and  got  something  to  eat; 

Then  didn't  know  what  to  do. 
Sighed  the  All- wise  "  But  he  's  queer ! 

He  'II  never  manage  alone  ! 
Some  one  must  give  him  a  steer!" 

Straightway  He  fashioned  the  Bone. 

Bossed  man  that  Bone  from  the  start. 

Teased  him  and  told  him  and  taught; 
Learned  him  the  lines  of  his  part; 

Trained  him  to  do  as  he  ought. 
Till,  in  his  huge  self-conceit, 

He  set  up  aims  of  his  own; 
Fancied  his  mind  was  complete; 

Learned  to  disparage  the  Bone. 

Patient,  she  bore  with  his  brass; 

Humored  him,  pampered,  endured 
All,  till  things  came  to  a  pass, 

When  they  just  had  to  be  cured. 
130 


THE    REVOLT    OF    THE    BONE 

"  Won't  do  his  share  of  the  work ! 

I  '11  add  it  then  to  my  own ! 
Power  to  the  drudge  from  the  shirk ! 

Give  me  my  vote!"  said  the  Bone. 

Scary  the  outlook  for  man, 

Warned  and  defied  by  the  Bone ! 

Let  him  be  good  while  he  can ! 
Woman  can  go  it  alone ! 


131 


SPRING    FEVER 

WANT  to  go  to  Boston !    There  's  something  in  the 
*      air — 
The  breath  of  spring;   some  restless  germ  unnamed;   it 's 

everywhere — 
That  somehow  makes  my  spirit  loathe   all   tasks   and 

discipline, 
And  seasonably  stirs  it  up  to  bolt  the  rut  it 's  in. 

Oh,  clang  of  gongs  on  cable-cars !     Oh,   rattling   trains 

o'erhead ! 
Oh,  hustle  of  this  driving  town!     Oh,  life  too  briskly 

sped! 

'Twixt  you  and  me  'twere  sweet  to  put  a  temporary  gap, 
And  go  and  sit  awhile  in  Boston's  calm,  commodious  lap. 

'Tis  true,  it 's  not  the  town  it  was  some  twenty  years 

ago, 

For  even  Boston  can't  neglect  its  Yankee  right  to  grow; 
But  still,  one  finds  a  peerless  club  just  where  one  found 

it  then, 
And  gazing  out  on  Beacon  Hill  those  same  good  Boston 

men. 

132 


SPRING    FEVER 

I  want  to  play  with  them  awhile,  and  hear  their  Boston 

prate, 
And  note  their  spreading  dearth  of  hair  and  irksome 

gains  in  weight; 
And,   just   as   an   experiment,   there   might   perhaps   be 

tried 
One  Boston  cocktail's  work  in  an  abstemious  inside. 

I  want  to  drive  on  Brookline  roads,  past  homes  where 
lives  are  spent 

In  fiscal  ease,  and  sport,  and  intellectual  content; 

And  see  the  Dedham  polo  sharps  their  livers'  weal  pro- 
mote, 

And  hear  on  India  wharf  the  lay  that  greets  the  Port- 
land boat. 

Oh,  Boston,  sweet  are  your  delights,  and  though  they 

may  seem  vain 
To  minds  austere,  my  spirit  craves  the  taste  of  them 

again. 
Oh,  heavenly  town  when  one  is  tired !  this  good  one  may 

discern 
In  you  that  Heaven  has  not,  since  one  may  taste  you, 

and  return. 


133 


EBEN    PYNCHOT'S    REPENTANCE 

1892 


PYNCHOT    was    sad,    Eben    Pynchot    was 
gloomy, 

While  it  might  be  a  trifle  too  much  to  assume  he 
Was  ready  to  vacate  this  vortex  of  strife, 
There  was  no  denying  he  didn't  like  life. 
He  had  tried  it  both  ways,  tried  it  just  as  it  came, 
And  gone  out  of  his  way  to  make  of  it  a  game 
Of  elaborate  methods  and  definite  plan, 
With  ends  fit  to  serve  as  the  chief  ends  of  man. 
Either  way  it  seemed  now  he  'd  been  chasing  a  bubble, 
And  the  fun  he  had  had  hardly  paid  for  the  trouble. 

First  trying  it  poor,  with  his  living  to  work  for, 
He  had  used  as  much  strength  as  he  had  to  exert  for 
That  purpose  and  stopped  there;   not  that  he  was  lazy, 
But  going  without  to  him  always  came  easy, 
And  he  greatly  preferred  to  have  less  and  economize, 
With  a  mind  free  to  meditate,  read,  or  astronomize, 
Than  to  hustle,  with  due  acquisition  of  dross, 
But  with  no  mind  for  aught  except  profit  or  loss. 

134 


EBEN  PYNCHOT'S  REPENTANCE 

"  In  his  work,"  said  his  boss,  "he 's  a  youth  to  be  counted  on 
Very  much  as  you  'd  trust  to  a  clever  automaton, 
But  for  all  that  he  cares  for  commercial  adventure,  he 
Would  go  through  the  same  daily  round  for  a  century." 

For  a  while  once  he  did  show  some  symptoms  of  go 
That  promised  in  time  into  "business"  to  grow; 
He  worked  overtime,  and  his  questions  betrayed 
Such  a  wish  to  discover  how  money  was  made 
That  his  increase  of  zeal  by  his  owners  was  noted 
And  he  stood  on  the  sharp  edge  of  being  promoted, 
When  his  eagerness  all  of  a  sudden  dispersed 
And  he  lapsed  into  just  what  he  had  been  at  first. 
It  was  never  explained,  but  it  seemed  to  come  pat 
That  Miss  Blake  married  Rogers  the  June  after  that. 

'Twas  the  following  spring  that  his  great-uncle  Eben, 
Whose  toil  in  "the  Swamp"  long  had  lucrative  proven, 
Caught  a  cold  riding  home  insufficiently  clad 
And  promptly  developed  the  prevalent  fad. 
"Pneumonia;  age  much  against  him,"  'twas  whispered. 
His  life  had  been  frugal  and  leather  had  prospered. 
The  will  spattered  off  at  the  start  with  bequests 
To  cousins,  and  colleges,  hospitals,  rests 
For  the  wayworn,  old  servants,  familiars,  and  clerks, 

135 


EBEN  PYNCHOT'S  REPENTANCE 

Till  it  showed  a  round  sum  gone  for  love  and  good  works. 
"All  of  which,"  it  ran  on,  "being  paid  with  due  care, 
Being  still  of  sound  mind,  I  appoint  and  declare 
Eben  Pynchot,  my  nephew  and  namesake,  to  be 
Of  the  whole  of  the  residue  sole  legatee." 

"His    nephew!     Don't    know    him,"    Executor    Willing 

said. 

"Never  heard  of  him!"  echoed  Executor  Hollingshed. 
"Was  here  at  the  funeral,"  said  Executor  Prince, 
"I  saw  him,  but  haven't  laid  eyes  on  him  since. 
Never  mind,   he  '11  turn  up."     But  all  three  of  them 

guessed 
That  his  share  would  be  small  after  paying  the  rest. 

Then  came  the  post-mortem.     The  trio  selected  to 
Operate  found  what  they  hadn't  expected  to. 
The  autopsy  dazed  them.     A  simple  tin  box, 
Excised  from  behind  a  Trust  Company's  locks, 
Developed  securities  in  lots  and  varieties 
So  ample  and  with  such  regard  for  proprieties 
In  the  matter  of  dividends,  that  those  worthy  men 
Sat  speechless  till,  getting  their  wind  back  again, 
An  admission  each  gasped  in  such  voice  as  he  could 
Of  how  old  Eben's  worth  had  been  misunderstood. 

136 


EBEN  PYNCHOT'S  REPENTANCE 

"That  young  man  is  well  off,"  said  Executor  Willing; 
"Eight  millions  in  pocket  as  sure  as  a  shilling." 
Mused  Executor  Prince:    "Nearer  twelve,  I  should  say, 
And  he  'd  better  be  sent  for  without  more  delay." 

He  took  it  all  calmly,  incredulous  first, 

Then  wonder-eyed,  lastly  resigned  to  the  worst. 

Being  quit  of  the  need  to  beg,  labor,  or  rob, 

He  made  sure  of  the  facts  and  then  threw  up  his  job, 

Bought  a  sharp,  shining  shears  fit  his  coupons  to  sever, 

And  regarding  himself  done  with  labor  forever, 

Set  out  with  serene  disposition  to  measure 

What  profit  might  lie  in  existence  at  leisure. 

Five  years  passed,  they  left  him  well  on  in  his  twenties, 

But  still  to  his  new  trade  a  willing  apprentice; 

Deliberate  still  in  his  manner,  and  spare 

In  his  frame,  fitly  dressed  and  with  not  too  much  care, 

Eating  all  things  and  drinking  all  freely,  and  yet  with 

The  sort  of  instinctive  discretion  that 's  met  with 

In  monkeys,  and  men  who  from  testing  it  find 

That  less  fun  with  the  gullet  means  more  with  the 

mind. 

For  he  realized  young  that  though  houses  may  burn 
And  be  built  again  finer,  and  jewels  return 

137 


EBEN  PYNCHOT'S  REPENTANCE 

That  were  lost,  and  a  fortune  misused  be  replaced 
By  a  windfall  in  spite  of  inordinate  waste, 
And  a  man's  very  ancestors  sometimes  may  be 
Swapped  off,  a  job  lot,  for  a  fresh  pedigree, 
Though  his  babes  he  may  shift  too,  and  even  his  wife, 
The  stomach  he  starts  with  stays  by  him  through  life; 
And  too  much  or  too  little  care  what  he  shall  put  in  it 
Is  likely  to  leave  him  at  last  with  his  foot  in  it. 

Five  years  he  had  travelled,  by  gradual  stages 

Finding  out  what  a  million  a  year  in  this  age  is, 

And  inuring  himself  to  the  startling  effects 

Wrought  by  gold  on  deposit  responsive  to  checks. 

Circumventing  the  globe  on  a  track  loosely  planned, 

He  had  got  some  idea  of  the  lay  of  the  land, 

Supplementing  the  same  with  deliberate  diligence 

By  study  of  people  and  human  intelligence. 

Wise  men  and  wise  virgins  and  fools  of  all  statuses, 

Promoters,  scamps,  anarchists,  young  Fortunatuses, 

Russian  princes,  dukes,  beggars,  lords,  common  Cook's 

tourists, 

Diplomatists,  gamblers,  mind-readers,  faith-curists, 
Grooms,  couriers,  mandarins,  pashas,  bagmen,  colonels, 
Professors,    cads,    spendthrifts,    correspondents    of   jour- 
nals, 

138 


EBEN  PYNCHOT'S  REPENTANCE 

He  had  rubbed  against  all  of  them  and  hundreds  more  too, 
Getting  aspects  of  life  from  diverse  points  of  view. 
Pall  Mall,  Piccadilly,  Bois,  Boulevard,  Corso 
Had  grown  trite   to  his  eye   as  Fourteenth  Street,   or 

more  so. 

The  famed  bank  of  Neva,  each  Rings trasse  mart, 
The  paths  Unter  Linden,  he  knew  all  by  heart. 
Duly  vouched  for  in  letters  of  forceful  variety, 
He  had  dabbled  two  seasons  in  London  society. 
A  house  in  Park  Lane  had  disputed  his  stay 
With  a  suite  that  he  kept  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 
The  Derby  those  years  'twas  worth  doing,  to  see 
The  swells  on  his  drag:   ditto  more  at  Grand  Prix. 
On  a  stem-winder  yacht  in  the  Mediterranean 
He  had  cruised  in  such  guise  as  Jove  visited  Danae  in, 
Putting  in  at  his  whim  where  there  chanced  to  appear  a 
Fe"te  worthy  to  share  in  the  bright  Riviera; 
Waking  up  Monte  Carlo  by  way  of  a  prank, 
By  testing  new  methods  of  breaking  the  bank; 
Storing  Venice,  her  stones  and  canals,  in  his  memory, 
The  Bosporus  cleaving,  romantic  and  glamoury; 
Then  the  Nile,  thence  Suez,  by  his  craft  percolated, 
Let  him  in  on  the  East  with  a  mind  not  yet  sated: 
Bombay  and  Colombo,  Calcutta  and  Delhi, 
Simla,  Bangkok  and  Singapore,  Canton  and  Shanghai, 

139 


EBEN  PYNCHOT'S  REPENTANCE 

Tientsin  and  Pekin,  and  flowery  Japan 
Had  all  fitted  into  his  nebulous  plan. 
Seeing  all  that  he  might  and  inferring  the  rest, 
He  had  drifted  on,  gaining,  with  modified  zest, 
Much  lore  of  carved  ivory,  lacquers  and  pottery, 
Theosophy,  Buddhism,  jade,  gems,  and  tottery 
Shrines,  flavored  all  by  things  mentioned  or  written 
By  the  all-supervising,  ubiquitous  Briton. 

Nor  had  he  neglected  that  signally  filling 
Device  known  as  "sport,"  euphemistic  for  killing. 
Constrained  by  the  vogue  that  that  pastime  secures, 
He   had   bagged   countless   pheasants,   stalked   deer   on 

Scotch  moors, 

Chased  foxes  on  horseback,  tracked  Muscovite  bears, 
Met  tigers  at  home  in  their  Bengalese  lairs, 
And  capped  African  beasts  with  assorted  quietuses, 
From  lions  and  elephants  down  to  mosquitoeses. 
Discerning  how  great  and  how  cheap  is  the  credit 
Accorded  to  blood,  he  continued  to  shed  it, 
Till  his  mentors  admitted  he  couldn't  do  more, 
And  Phil  Armour  himself  wasn't  deeper  in  gore. 

So,  too,  horse.     Though  his  globe-trotting  didn't  permit 
Him  to  feel  for  that  beast  the  concern  he  is  fit 

140 


EBEN    PYNCHOT'S    REPENTANCE 

To  awaken  in  man,  he  became  with  his  looks 

Well  acquainted  enough  to  know  withers  from  hocks; 

And  if  all  of  his  good  points  he  couldn't  detect, 

He  acquired  at  the  least  an  unstinted  respect 

For  a  brute  in  whose  structure  one  great  end  in  view  'tis 

To  help  idle  men  to  exist  without  duties. 

Exhausting  at  last  the  incentives  to  roam, 
Eben  gathered  his  trophies  and  turned  toward  home. 
Despatching  his  yacht  her  own  passage  to  work, 
He  sailed  on  a  "liner"  himself  for  New  York, 
And  arrived,  duly  sanctioned  that  town  to  possess 
By  that  title  unchallenged,  a  London  success. 
In  due  time  joining  clubs  and  his  birthright  renewing 
He  got  some  idea  what  his  fellows  were  doing, 
And  ventured  to  make  his  desire  understood 
To  share  their  proceedings  as  far  as  he  could. 
Obtaining  a  villa  not  too  far  away 
He  put  himself  up  there,  not  meaning  to  stay 
By  himself,  but  desiring  some  haven  to  fly  to 
When  he  wanted  to  think,  or  had  reason  to  try  to. 
On  the  Hudson  it  stood,  on  whose  fresh-water  tide 
His  boat  lay  prepared  to  vex  waters  untried 
Any  moment  her  owner  whim-prompted  might  happen 
To  step  on  her  deck  with  his  wishing  (sea)  cap  on. 

141 


EBEN    PYNCHOT'S    REPENTANCE 

In  a  couple  more  years  by  more  long-distance  gadding, 
Whenever  one  place  or  one  crowd  got  too  madding, 
He  'd  conversant  become  with  this  land's  superficies 
And  the  palpable  traits  of  American  species. 
Playing  polo  at  Newport  and  coaching  at  Lenox, 
Mount  Desert's  hazards  daring  unshattered,  and  then  oo 
Cidentally  threading  the  fresh-water  seas, 
Thence  off  to  the  land  of  hot  springs  and  big  trees, 
Adding  big-horns  and  elk  to  the  list  of  his  slaughtered, 
Back   to   bow   to   she-Patriarchs,    bejewelled,    bedaugh- 

tered, 

Watching  Congress  dispute  through  a  Washington  win- 
ter, 

Leading  germans  the  pace  of  a  misapplied  sprinter — 
It  was  fun,  but  for  all  it  diverted  and  pleased 
Eben  Pynchot,  it  left  in  him,  all  unappeased, 
A  gnawing  distrust  of  how  long  to  beguile 
Life  by  dodging  its  problems  was  really  worth  while. 
So  back  to  that  villa  he  had  on  the  brink 
Of  the  Hudson  he  drifted  and  paused  there  to  think. 

He  took  time  to  it;   building  a  little  and  planting, 
Assorting  the  fruits  of  his  wide  gallivanting, 
Disposing  his  porcelains,  pictures,  and  bric-a-brac 
(Hitherto  jumbled  out  helter-skelter  and  pick-a-back). 

142 


EBEN  PYNCHOT'S  REPENTANCE 

So  that  other  collectors,  inspecting  his  plunder, 

Might  covet  his  bits  with  due  envy  and  wonder; 

That  his  Japanese  swords,  when  his  rivals  should  call  on 

'em, 

Might  stir  in  them  desperate  longings  to  fall  on  'em; 
That   his   peachblows   and   sang-de-boeufs,    and   various 

glazes 

Might  rouse  into  violent  mania  the  crazes 
Of  persons  whose  cherished  and  costly  insanity 
Makes  them  suitable  objects  of  man's  inhumanity. 

Some  orchids  he  got  too,  not  many  but  curious, 
And  a  notable  lot  of  chrysanthemums  glorious. 
Also  horses  enough  for  his  uses  vehicular, 
And  to  make  spavins,  ringbones,  diseases  navicular, 
Splints,  curbs,  and  most  species  of  equine  affection 
Familiar  enough  to  him  soon  for  detection. 
Yet  with  all  of  these  manifold  means  of  distraction 
He  still  found  time  for  thought,  for  the  blues,  for  inac- 
tion. 

The  newspapers  came  with  the  world's  motley  annals, 
And  into  his  mind  through  unfortified  channels 
Ran  the  story  of  enterprise,  effort,  success, 
Mishap,  want,  and  failure  that  reels  from  the  press, 
And  stuck  there,  corroding  his  lights,  and  his  liver's 

143 


EBEN  PYNCHOT'S  REPENTANCE 

Performance  so  marring  it  gave  him  the  shivers, 
Because  with  no  authorized  permit  to  shirk, 
He  was  living  as  quit  of  humanity's  work 
As  a  grasshopper  is,  in  a  June  meadow  playing, 
Of  the  trite  agricultural  duty  of  haying. 
It  was  then  that  his  spirits  began  to  succumb 
To  that  duly  hereinbefore  hinted  at  gloom, 
Week  by  week,  month  by  month,  grew  his  dissatisfac- 
tion 
Till  at  last  came  the  climax  that  foreshadowed  action. 

"What  is  it,"   he  mused,   "that  makes  life  worth   the 

living  ? 

Is  it  endless  receiving  and  spending,  or  giving? 
Is  it  lollipops,  flapdoodle,  horses,  and  yachts; 
Having  pennies  to  drop  in  all  possible  slots  ? 
Is  it  hustle  and  get-there,  the  genius  for  trade 
And  commercial  combines,  by  which  fortunes  are  made? 
I  never  liked  that.     Was  it  luck  or  mishap 
That  a  fortune  without  it  fell  into  my  lap  ? 
A  bowlder  of  size  has  been  rolled  to  the  crown 
Of  a  hill:   I  can  start  it  and  let  it  roll  down. 
If  you  set  a  great  trap  and  within  my  reach  bring  it, 
No  doubt  I  can  jump  on  the  bait-plate  and  spring  it. 
But  the  question  keeps  pressing  what  fellow  gets  caught — 

144 


EBEN  PYNCHOT'S  REPENTANCE 

Whose  legs  the  trap  shuts  on — who  is  it  that 's  bought  ? 
I  'm  not  sure,  but  at  odd  times  I  own  I  opine 
That  the  limbs  that  I  see  held  so  firmly  are  mine ! 
Must  I  keep  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  I  wonder, 
This  purposeless  role  of  idealized  rounder ! 
It  is  really  a  good  gift  that  snatches  away 
The  motives  for  labor  and  substitutes  play ! 
The  fellows  that  do  things  and  are  things  attain 
Their  lead  by  hard  discipline  seasoned  with  pain. 
Their  characters  grow  by  the  sort  of  endeavor 
That  seizes  on  time  as  a  slice  of  forever. 
It  begins  just  a  little  to  get  through  my  head 
What  the  grave  Seer  of  Galilee  meant  when  He  said 
What  he  did  to  that  youth  who  disliked  His  advice 
And  went  off  disconcerted  to  pause  and  think  twice. 
If  the  spirit 's  the  man,  what  in  thunder 's  the  use 
Of  indulging  the  senses  with  pains  so  profuse 
If  the  more  you  indulge  them  the  harder  it  is 
For  the  spirit  to  get  what  is  lawfully  his ! 
Not  the  best  behorsed  drag  can  keep  up  very  far 
With  a  tuppenny  cart  that  is  hitched  to  a  star. 
Having  fun  with  one's  money 's  a  good  thing  to  do, 
But  how  about  letting  it  have  fun  with  you ! 
Mine  shall  serve,  not  possess;   and  unless  I  can  keep 
My  place  soul  end  upward,  on  top  of  my  heap, 

145 


EBEN  PYNCHOT'S  REPENTANCE 

I  vow  that  by  way  my  defeat  to  acknowledge 

I  '11  dump  the  whole  pile  on  a  Methodist  college." 

Eben  Pynchot's  become  a  laborious  man. 

He  went  back  to  work  with  more  purpose  than  plan, 

And  his  purpose  was  no  more  than  this,  that  he  would 

With  himself  and  his  pile  do  the  best  that  he  could. 

But  he  followed  the  rule,  both  in  person  and  pelf, 

That  who  does  best  for  others  does  best  for  himself. 

He  's  occupied  now  with  an  office  and  clerks, 

Deep  in  politics,  business  concerns,  and  good  works. 

Much  he  gives,  but  how  much,  or  to  whom,  or  to  what, 

Are  things  that  this  rhyming  deponent  learns  not. 

Of  a  dozen  great  charities  yearly  one  sees 

His  name  lettered  out  in  the  list  of  trustees. 

He  owns  model  tenements,  too,  and  I  know 

Of  his  trying  experiments  not  long  ago 

To  see  whether  a  system  of  loan-shops  could  thrive 

Where  borrowers  needn't  be  quite  skinned  alive. 

As  for  politics,  knowing  that  folks  can  make  shift 

To  do  without  help  if  so  be  they  have  thrift, 

But    good    government's    something   they   can't    thrive 

without, 

He  does  his  best  efforts  to  bring  that  about. 
And  he  sticks  to  it  so,  with  such  dogged  persistence, 

146 


EBEN  PYNCHOT'S  REPENTANCE 

Such  energy  here,  and  again  such  resistance, 
That  I  own  there  are  times  when  I  almost  prepare 
To  see  some  hall  or  other  run  Eben  for  mayor. 

His  liver  works  better  now,  thanks  to  this  whirl 
Of  industry,  and — oh  !  besides,  there  's  a  girl ! 
Such  a  dear !  such  a  heart !  and  such  wits  !  such  a  head ! 
Such  a  hang  to  her  gown !  such  a  poise  of  her  tread ! 
She  has  stock  in  that  loan-office  scheme  I  was  speak- 
ing of.     Eben  consults  with  her  four  times  a  week. 
And  so  arch  is  her  smile  and  so  cheerful  his  scoff 
That  I  own  I  think  sometimes  they  will  hit  it  off. 
'Twould  be  great  luck  for  Eben  if  those  two  should  pair, 
For  who  needs  so  much  help  as  an  arch-millionaire ! 


147 


VERSES    OF    OCCASION 


RETROSPECTIVELY    SPEAKING 

From  Life,  January,  1893. 

WHEN  Life  began,  experienced  persons  said: 
"See  Lachesis  her  shears  snip  that  slim  thread, 
A  line  so  slender  can't  protracted  be: 
Lo,  Punchinello's  early  tomb !  and  see 
Yon  tumulus  whose  cut-off  hump  declares 
How  premature  an  end  was  Vanity  Fair's. 
Brightness  and  brevity  as  surely  mate 
As  pork  and  beans.     It  isn't  chance;   it 's  fate  ! 
A  few  brief  months  of  coruscation,  then 
Life  will  go  out."     So  said  experienced  men. 

A  decade  swift  since  then  this  Earth  has  sped, 
And  every  day  has  turned  things  on  their  head. 
Croakers  who   moaned   "short  Life!"  themselves   have 

died, 

Strong  banks  have  bursted;   men  whose  means  defied 
All  turns  of  fortune  have  been  brought  to  use 
The  surer  plan  of  having  naught  to  lose. 
"Assured  success"  has  gone  through  bankruptcy. 
Merit  in  partnership  with  Industry 
Have  somehow  failed  to  justify  presumption, 

151 


RETROSPECTIVELY    SPEAKING 

And  draw  a  salary  now,  employed  by  Gumption. 

New  journals,  solemn,  fiscal,  economic, 

Religious,  newsy,  sporty,  spicy,  comic, 

Diurnal,  weekly — every  kind  you  take — 

Have  mostly  left  depression  in  their  wake. 

Still  round  this  world  has  spun,  nor  lost  a  minute, 

And  Life— "brief,  fitful  Life"— Life  still  is  in  it. 

Ten  times  around  the  freckled  orb  of  day, 
Hebdomadally  blazing  out  the  way, 
What  a  procession  of  its  blessed  self 
Stalks  through  that  score  of  volumes  on  Life's  shelf ! 
What  old,  old  friends  perennially  appear ! 
What  new  ones  come  and  go,  to  chide  or  cheer ! 
Fair  Chloe,  both  ways  drawn,  choosing  by  toss 
'Twixt  Strephon's  ardor  and  old  Bullion's  dross; 
Lucy  and  Jack  kept  single  by  the  curse 
Of  large  requirements  and  a  slender  purse; 
The  joys  ornate  in  which  the  rich  compete; 
The  simple  pastimes  of  a  Thompson  Street; 
Shanty-bred  Romeo's  high-flown  speeches  poured 
Into  the  infant  ears  of  his  adored; 
Cesnola's  fragments  joined  with  too  much  skill; 
The  summer-girl,  by  ennui  driven  to  kill 
Too  sluggish  hours  by  stirring  with  her  fan 

152 


RETROSPECTIVELY    SPEAKING 

The  smouldering  passion  of  the  casual  man; 

The  Sabbatarian,  aye  obtusely  prone 

To  estimate  the  Lord's  day  as  his  own; 

The  anxious  tests  the  newly  married  make 

To  learn  what  course  two  lives  when  lumped  must  take; 

In  all  his  uses  in  recurring  course 

That  dearest  quadruped  to  man,  the  horse; 

Dudes,  chappies,  flunkies,  bishops,  statesmen,  sports; 

Brusque  millionaires;   professors  of  all  sorts; 

Managing  matrons,  doctors,  perfect  dears; 

Prudes,  politicians,  fortune-hunting  peers; 

Prigs,  flirts,  small  boys  chock  full  of  devilment; 

Wrong-headed  folks  who  err  with  good  intent; 

Policemen,  parsons,  all  the  recurring  train 

That  cross  the  boards  of  time,  and  come  again, 

While  down  in  front  in  strongest  light  confer 

The  score-score  stars  of  the  McAllister. 

Dear  hundred  thousand  friends  to  whom  Life  owes 
The  vital  force  by  which  it  lives  and  grows, 
Your  prompt  support  its  infant  steps  that  propped 
And  never  since  has  wavered,  much  less  stopped, 
Is  still  its  best  possession — its  very  self — 
Since  when  that  ceases  Life  goes  on  the  shelf. 
For  any  good  Life  has  availed  to  do, 

153 


RETROSPECTIVELY    SPEAKING 

The  lion's  share  of  praise  belongs  to  you. 

'Twas  you  that  opened  Gotham's  museum's  door 

And  helped  make  Sunday  useful  to  the  poor; 

'Twas  you,  last  summer,  and  your  fostering  care, 

That  gave,  through  Life,  four  thousand  babes  fresh  air. 

Your  laugh  has  turned  purse-proud  Assumption  pale, 

Your  scornful  eyes  have  seen  Imposture  quail, 

And  driven  the  bigot  skulking  from  his  niche, 

And  checked  the  follies  of  the  idle  rich. 

Life,  truly,  fits  the  shafts  to  proper  strings, 

But  'tis  your  hands  that  give  the  missiles  wings. 

Be  still  the  sun  that  brings  Life's  buds  to  bloom ! 

Forgive  its  faults;   its  failings  still  assume 

To  be  such  griefs  as  come  to  every  man 

When  what  he  would  mismatches  what  he  can: 

Still  speed  its  darts  at  Folly  as  she  flies; 

Still  laugh  down  ostentation,  meanness,  lies; 

Still  share  its  mirth;   still  help  its  humor's  point 

To  jab  the  times  where'er  they  're  out  of  joint. 

Whate'er  befalls  this  world  of  greed  and  strife, 

While  Life  has  you,  be  sure  you  shall  have  Life. 

Let 's  keep  on  trying,  without  undue  fuss, 

To  make  the  world  less  gloomy,  having  us. 


154 


LIFE    LOQUITUR 

From  Life,  January  2,  1908. 

\  JO,  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  was, 
I  ^    Not  new  in  the  world  any  more. 
There  's  little  that  any  one  does 

But  I  Ve  seen  it  done  often  before. 
If  I  've  come  to  observe  and  reflect, 

If  I  don't  have  to  wait  to  be  told, 
It 's  only  what 's  right  to  expect — 

I  'm  a  full  quarter-century  old. 

Twenty-five  's  no  great  age,  but,  dear  me ! 

When  I  pass  in  review  what  has  been, 
And  match  up  the  marvels  I  see 

With  the  notable  things  I  have  seen, 
And  count  the  good  men  that  ar'  n't  here, 

And  reckon  the  haps  that  befell, 
I  own,  tally  woe,  tally  cheer, 

I  've  been  hanging  around  quite  a  spell. 

Presidents  six  have  I  known, 

Chester  and  Grover  and  Ben, 
Grover,  more  requisite  grown, 

Back  in  the  White  House  again, 
155 


LIFE    LOQUITUR 

William  McKinley  twice  called, 
In  his  fifth  summer  laid  low, 

Theodore  duly  installed, 

And — sakes  alive  !  Theodore  now. 

Good  times  and  bad  I  've  been  through, 

Saw  and  outlived  ninety-three, 
Bryan's  first  vagaries  knew — 

Silver's  dire  threat  to  be  free. 
Hard  combination  to  beat ! 

Just  when  the  crash  seemed  in  sight, 
Dollar  a  bushel  for  wheat 

Won  us  the  Sound  Money  fight. 

Confidence  rising  again, 

Straightway  prosperity's  tide 
Turned  and  began  pouring  in. 

Hark  !     Was  that  Cuba  that  cried? 
Shrieked  to  us  "Save  me  from  Spain!" 

While  we  considered  our  answer 
Down  to  her  doom  went  the  Maine 

In  the  mud  of  the  Tropic  of  Cancer ! 

War !     Couldn't  stay  it  then.     War ! 
Vain  the  appeals  of  outsiders. 
156 


LIFE    LOQUITUR 

Bristled  the  sea  and  the  shore; 

Roosevelt  raised  the  Rough  Riders. 
Dewey — Manila  Bay — May  Day — 

Turn  the  long  page  full  of  lines; 
See  us  in  Glory's  huge  heyday, 

Stuck  with  the  far  Philippines. 

Theodore,  master  of  luck; 

Theodore,  marvel  of  vigor; 
Toe  in  the  stirrup,  tongue  on  the  cluck, 

Finger  not  far  from  the  trigger; 
Eager  to  swim  in  the  tide's  swiftest  eddy, 

Fatefully  steered  on  his  way  there, 
Him  in  the  White  House  finding  already, 

We-all  cried:   "Theodore,  stay  there!" 

Every  one  now  must  be  good, 

No  one  the  laws  may  ignore, 
Magnates  must  do  as  they  should, 

Trusts  may  not  hog  any  more. 
Righteousness  garnished  with  rue ! 

(Hark  to  the  stock-ticker's  click !) 
As  you  'd  be  done  by,  so  do ! 

Failing,  beware  the  Big  Stick ! 


157 


LIFE    LOQUITUR 

So  here  we  are,  and  p'raps  you  know 
Where  we  '11  come  out;  I  don't. 

The  yeast 's  been  working  in  the  dough. 

That 's  good,  I  guess.     Oh,  yes  !  but  oh  ! 

It 's  agitating;   differing  so 
From  old-time  use  and  wont. 

But  let  it  work;   so  history  's  made, 
While  we  stand  by  and  gape. 

Nor  is  Time's  stormy  current  stayed 

Because  onlookers  are  afraid. 

When  Destiny's  big  games  are  played, 
They  're  played,  and  no  escape. 

My  Gibson  girls  are  mothers  now 

Of  daughters  fair  as  they, 
And  of  prospective  voters,  too: 
Wise  voters,  doubtless;   anyhow 
As  wise  in  prospect,  all  allow, 

As  are  their  sires  to-day. 

A  country's  strength  is  in  its  men; 

Ours  are  their  mothers'  sons. 
The  breed  's  been  duly  tried,  and  when 
Have  problems  stumped  it?     Duly  then 
158 


LIFE    LOQUITUR 

We  '11  see  our  problems  solved  again: 
So  history's  forecast  runs. 

Let 's  all  be  good  and  trim  our  sails, 

And  hold  our  courses  true; 
For  never  mind  what  mischief  ails, 
Unless  the  human  factor  fails, 
The  old  God-fearing  grit  avails 
To  pull  the  patient  through. 


159 


LIFE    TO    HIS    FRIENDS 

From  Life,  January  2,  1913. 

Dear  hundred  thousand  friends  to  whom  Life  owes 

The  vital  force  by  which  it  lives  and  grows, 

Your  prompt  support  its  infant  steps  that  propped 

And  never  since  has  wavered,  much  less  stopped, 

Is  still  its  best  possession — its  very  self — 

Since  when  that  ceases,  Life  goes  on  the  shelf. 

For  any  good  Life  has  availed  to  do, 

The  lion's  share  of  praise  belongs  to  you. 

Let 's  keep  on  trying,  without  undue  fuss, 

To  make  the  world  less  gloomy,  having  us! 

SO  Life  at  ten  years  old,  and  so  the  tale 
Runs  on,  trite  maybe,  but  in  no  wise  stale. 
Dear  friends,  grown  now  to  be  a  million  strong, 
To  faithful  you  the  pseans  still  belong. 
Somehow  you  Ve  stuck,   through   slender  and  through 

thick, 

And  many  a  hoof  have  dodged,  and  many  a  brick. 
For  fifteen  hundred  weeks  and  more,  your  aid 
The  mordant  forces  of  decay  have  stayed, 
At  censure  blinked  and  calumny  ignored, 
And  damned  the  fatal  charge  that  you  were  bored. 
Something  has  held  you,  comrades;   what  it  was 
Has  puzzled  experts.     What  a  mortal  does 

160 


LIFE    TO     HIS     FRIENDS 

Has  always  blemishes.     Mischance,  mistake, 

False  inference  and  misconception,  make 

Blots  on  his  record,  do  the  best  he  may. 

For  this,  one  squad,  for  that,  another,  say 

"Out  on  him!"    "Do  him  up!"     "Not  fit  to  live !" 

"No  more  of  him !"  and  proper  orders  give. 

But  where  the  vital  spark  burns  really  strong, 

That  doesn't  end  it.     Still  he  plods  along: 

Scolded,  finds  balm  in  thought  that  many  men 

Have  many  minds,  and  downed,  bobs  up  again. 

Nothing  on  Earth  's  quite  right.     Lots  of  it 's  good, 
But  nothing  goes  precisely  as  it  should, 
Nor  so  near  right  but  that  a  skilful  dab 
Lancfs  near  some  spot  in  it  that  needs  a  jab. 
Now  jabs  are  what  Life's  office  'tis  to  yield; 
Jester  and  critic,  that 's  his  proper  field; 
Not  wantonly,  nor  fiercely,  but  polite, 
Good-natured,  with  attentive  skill,  to  bite. 
But,  friends,  this  world  of  comfortable  folk 
Is  full,  who  think  a  jab  or  bite  's  no  joke. 
Respectable  and  solvent,  they  make  known 
Th'  existing  order  's  good  to  let  alone; 
They  like  it,  faults,  absurdities  and  all, 
And  when  you  bite  their  end  of  it,  they  bawl. 
161 


LIFE    TO     HIS     FRIENDS 

To  them,  Life's  obvious  office  is  to  show 

What  other  fellows  think  is  partly  so. 

Perhaps,  because  you  think  they  should  be  shown, 

Dear  million  friends,  you  never  quite  disown 

Your  faulty,  barking  Life,  so  bad,  so  bold, 

That  never  would  or  could  do  as  it 's  told. 

No,  never !     Do  you  wonder  why  ?     Demand 

To  know  its  master;   then  you  '11  understand. 

A  sense  of  letters  and  a  sense  of  art; 

A  sense  of  justice  and  a  decent  heart; 

No  mule  to  drive  more  obstinate  than  he, 

But  on  the  team  he  drives  a  hand  so  free, 

So  light,  so  sure,  controlled  by  such  a  wit, 

The  driven  speed  on  unconscious  of  the  bit; 

Erroneous,  sympathetic,  ever  young; 

Shrewd  like  the  Pilgrim  stock  from  which  he  sprung; 

Not  fooled  by  praise,  by  censure  not  unnerved, 

Nor  yet  by  Vanity's  distraction  swerved; 

Free  thinker,  zealot,  Pan,  all  rolled  in  one 

And  penetrated  with  a  sense  of  fun 

And  breeze  of  Gaul.     You  have  him  !    There  's  your 

man ! 
Maker  of  Life  the  only  way  he  can. 

162 


AD    SODALES 

Read  at  a  dinner  of  the  Class  of  1877,  Harvard  College,  June  27, 1882. 

IS  it  a  dream?  Can  it  be  true 
That  we,  ungalled  by  business  fetters, 
Four  careless  years  once  loitered  through, 

Sojourners  in  the  home  of  letters? 
Beyond  a  doubt  it  is  a  fact 

Well  ascertained  and  well  attested: 
The  classic  shades,  though  not  intact, 
Are  still  the  shades  that  we  infested. 

Across  from  Holyoke  House  still  bloom 

Horse-chestnut  trees  with  fragrant  blossom; 
Old  Jarvis  Field  is  still  the  home 

Of  balls,  and  men  who  love  to  toss  'em. 
The  shriek  of  car-wheel  rounding  curve, 

The  listener's  blood  still  duly  curdles; 
Their  graceful  height  the  elms  preserve, 

Oblivious  to  their  tarry  girdles. 

And  still  across  the  winding  Charles 

Come  shells,  and  smells,  and  rapid  barges; 

The  Freshman  still,  in  force  at  Carl's, 
His  knowledge  of  the  world  enlarges. 
163 


AD     SODALES 

The  Sophomore  is  still  assured 

That  wisdom  with  himself  shall  perish; 

To  Clubs  the  Junior  still  is  lured; 
Still  tender  fancies  Seniors  cherish. 

But  yesterday,  and  we,  like  these, 

Were  nursing  our  jejune  affections, 
And  putting  in  for  our  degrees, 

And  squabbling  over  class  elections. 
That  Class  Day  night, — the  window-seat, 

From  which  all  thought  of  else  was  banished 
While  She  sat  there,  so  dear — so  sweet — 

Ah,  since  that  night  five  years  have  vanished ! 

Another  grinds  where  once  we  ground; 

Another  loafs  where  once  we  idled; 
And  others  still  cavort  around 

With  spirits — like  ours  were — unbridled. 
New  fellows  now  presume  to  woo 

New  girls,  whose  charms  we  never  wot  of; 
New  scouts  there  are  and  goodies  too, 

A  whole  new  world  that  we  are  not  of. 

But  still,  when  dismal  howls  the  wind, 
And  sweeps  the  rain  in  gusts  and  flurries, 
164 


AD    SODALES 

When  he  who  walks  looks  not  behind 
But  turns  his  collar  up  and  hurries, — 

On  certain  granite  blocks  is  brought 
To  light,  an  ancient  legend,*  showing 

Where,  in  the  days  we  knew,  'twas  thought 
The  University  was  going. 

And  was  it  going  there,  or  can 

There  truly  be  a  place  infernal 
Where  Justice  takes  it  out  of  man 

For  transient  sins  by  pains  eternal? 
I  do  not  know !     It  is  not  worth 

One's  while  to  disinter  dead  issues; 
1  know  that  what  make  Hell  of  Earth 

Are  weakened  wills  and  worn-out  tissues. 

And  to  these  mundane  hells,  they  say, 
The  paths  that  lead  at  first  are  cheerful 

And  bright,  but  further  on,  the  way, 
If  still  pursued,  grows  dark  and  fearful. 

It  may  be  some  of  us  did  get 
Too  far  along — I  do  not  say  so — 


*  NOTE. — On  the  front  of  University  Hall  appeared  one  morning  the 
inscription,  "The  University  is  Going  to  Hell."  It  was  scrubbed  off, 
but  is  still  legible  in  damp  weather. 

165 


AD    SODALES 

But — Well !  we  '11  do  to  pray  for  yet: 
We  are  survivors:   let  us  stay  so. 

The  voices  of  the  gentlest  tone, 

The  truest  eyes,  and  hearts  the  kindest; 
The  minds  most  conscious  of  their  own     ^ 

Shortcomings,  and  to  ours  the  blindest; 
Ah !  one  by  one,  and  year  by  year, 

Beneath  the  graveyard's  grassy  hummocks 
We  see  them  laid,  and  we  meet  here, 

Worse  men,  perhaps,  with  better  stomachs. 

Death,  Flaccus  says,  with  equal  kick 

Salutes  the  door  of  prince  and  peasant; 
Nor  comes  he  slower  or  more  quick 

If  life  be  burdensome  or  pleasant. 
'Tis  fit  that  in  his  steps  should  tread 

Sweet  Charity,  the  all-forgiving 
Nil  nisi  bonum  of  the  dead: 

Be  all  our  censure  for  the  living. 

We,  who  are  left,  be  ours  to  keep 
Our  harnesses  from  getting  rusty; 

What  wit  we  have  from  going  to  sleep; 
Our  wisdom  from  becoming  musty: 
166 


AD    SODALES 

To  catch  the  rein  our  fellow  drops, 
Mount,  and  in  action  growing  bolder, 

Reck  not  that  at  the  crupper  stops 

His  Care  with  ours,  behind  our  shoulder. 

And  though  we  realize  what  dross 

And  fleeting  things  our  hearts  are  set  on; 
How  much  of  seeming  gain  is  loss; 

How  many  truths  we  dare  not  bet  on; 
Regret  the  protoplastic  germs 

That  launched  us  in  this  higgle  piggle, 
And  feel  ourselves  but  wriggling  worms, 

Still,  being  worms, — do  let  us  wriggle. 

Who  scorns,  for  aught  the  world  can  give, 

To  stoop  to  lie,  or  trick,  or  juggle; 
Who  knows  that  he  has  got  to  live 

Though  only  pain  rewards  the  struggle; 
Who  nurses  to  their  fullest  growth 

The  talents  to  his  care  committed, 
And  runs  his  race,  and  nothing  loath, 

Be  he  who  may  against  him  pitted, — 

He  acts  the  man,  and  though  the  prize 
May  not  reward  his  long  endeavor; 
167 


AD    SODALES 

Though  at  the  goal  which  lured  his  eyes 
He  comes  too  late,  perhaps,  or  never; 

Still  day  by  day  by  what  he  does 

He  forms  the  fact  by  which  to  grade  him. 

'Twas  not  Sardanapalus,  'twas 
Leonidas,  whose  venture  paid  him. 


Perhaps  your  poet's  jester's  cap 

But  ill  conceals  a  care-worn  wrinkle; 
The  bells  he  rattles  have,  mayhap, 

Too,  too  lugubrious  a  tinkle; 
Fill  then  each  glass,  and  join  with  me 

In  wine  for  just  such  uses  given, 
To  whoop  her  up,  with  three-times  three 

And  bumpers  all  for  Seventy-Seven ! 

Our  Alma  Mater's  naughty  child, 

Whose  conscience  never  seemed  to  quicken; 
Whom  even  now  she  calls  her  wild- 

Est,  most  disreputable  chicken: 
Whose  conduct  with  a  wish  to  please 

Had  seldom  much  that  was  in  keeping; 
Who  sowed,  Ah  me !  a  lively  breeze, — 

Heaven  send  no  whirlwinds  for  our  reaping,- 
168 


AD    SODALES 

But  grant  that  while  our  heads  grow  cool, 

Our  hearts  beat  still  a  genial  patter; 
That  with  increased  regard  for  rule, 

And  pocketbooks  grown  somewhat  fatter, 
The  sluggish  mass  of  things  to  be 

May  find  in  us  a  sprightly  leaven; 
To  make  it  lighter  and  more  free, 

I  give — the  Class  of  Seventy-Seven. 


169 


TWENTY-FIVE    YEARS    AFTER 

Read  at  dinner  at  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  the  Class  of  '77, 
Harvard  College,  June  24,  1902. 

HERE  at  the  top  of  the  divide, 
Sit  we  together, 
And  smile  as  we  look  back, 
To  mark  our  tortuous  track; 
And  sigh  to  see  outspread 
The  long  down-grade  ahead; 
And  face  the  past,  and  then  the  coming  fate, 
And  sigh,  and  smile;   and  prate 
Of  years  long  sped  and  good  men  gone, 
And  drink  a  glass,  and  sing  another  song. 

This  being  forty-six,  or  thereabouts, 

Isn't  it  queer? 

This  getting  gray  and  trying  to  get  wise ! 

This  seeing  younger  men  lift  many  a  prize ! 

This  having  boys  and  girls  at  seats  of  learning 

Spending  more  money  than  their  sires  are  earning ! 

'Tis  not  in  nature  unconcerned  to  view 

This  slipping  past  the  point  of  going-to-do, 

But  glad  in  gains,  our  losses  we  endure. 

There's  life  left  in  the  old  class  yet;   that's  sure. 


170 


TWENTY-FIVE    YEARS    AFTER 

They  say  there  sits  with  us,  his  cheek  still  ruddy, 
Charles  William  Eliot's  likeliest  understudy.* 
Dear,  dear;   'twould  be  a  sight  to  flout  the  scorner 
To  see  old  Seventy-seven  head  that  corner ! 

Arcadians  all,  we  deprecate  all  fuss. 

Let  Fame  sweat  on  a-keeping  tab  on  us ! 

Let  Eighty  swell  with  pride,  and  cheer  and  bustle: 

We  could  have  given  her  odds  with  Billy  Russell ! 

Dear  man  with  thought  of  him  our  hearts  are  moved — 

Of  him,  and  Sigourney,  the  well-beloved, 

Whose  hand  and  heart  and  voice  in  charmed  accord 

Brought  warmth  and  mirth  and  kindness  to  our  board. 

Here,  at  the  top  of  the  divide, 
Sitting  together, 
Not  at  loss  shall  we  repine, 
But  sit  tight  and  drink  our  wine, 
Better  wives  we  couldn't  have, 
Better  children  don't  deserve, 
Better  men  we  may  be  yet, 
Better  prizes,  maybe,  get, 

But  whatsoever 
Fate  for  us  may  have  in  store, 

*  Abbott  Lawrence  Lowell,  President  of  Harvard  University,  1909. 

171 


TWENTY-FIVE    YEARS    AFTER 

Be  it  less  or  be  it  more, 
Be  it  gold  or  be  it  lead, 
Be  it  tail  or  be  it  head, 
Be  it  odd  or  be  it  even 
Here's  again  to  Seventy-seven ! 


172 


FIFTY    YEARS    OLD 

Read  at  the  Class  Dinner  of  Harvard,  '77,  June  25,  1907. 

IT  is  not  a  matter  that  needs  rubbing  in, 
If  it  hurts  anybody  it  needn't  be  told; 
It 's  only  that  none  of  us  youths  will  again 

Be  a  day  less  than  fifty-and-some  thing  years  old. 

Don't  want  to,  say  I;   it 's  a  wonderful  age. 

Good  as  new.     And  so  many  sound  reasons  to  praise  it. 
Soft  end  of  the  job  and  big  end  of  the  wage, 

And  all  the  good  work  you  've  done  counting  to  raise  it. 

It 's  true  that  disbursements  with  winnings  agree. 

That  50-year  incomes  have  suckers  to  suit. 
That 's  nothing.     What  profits  a  fifty-year  tree, 

If  not  to  give  shade  and  yield  adequate  fruit? 

Such  valuable  folk  as  are  fifty  years  old ! 

Such  burdens  they  carry,  such  currents  they  stem ! 
It 's  good  to  be  of  them  and  help  to  uphold 

The  chin  of  a  world  that  might  sink,  but  for  them. 

Sodales,  who  thirty  years  since  became  men, 

Aspiring  to  reach  what  their  fingers  might  clutch, 

173 


FIFTY    YEARS    OLD 

Ahead  still  our  gaze  is,  intently  as  then. 

We  hope,  we  desire,  we  aspire  just  as  much. 

But  this  is  the  difference:   Our  own  future  then 
Enlisted  our  hopes  and  aroused  our  misgivings; 

What  calls  to  us  now  is  the  new  race  of  men, 

Our  sons  and  our  daughters,  their  fates  and  their  liv- 
ings. 

God  bless  them  !    We  give  them  the  best  that  we  Ve  got — 
Young  hearts  bound  to  ours  on  the  old  human  plan, 

Coming  now,  squad  by  squad,  year  by  year  to  the  spot 
Where  we  stood  erstwhile  when  our  friendship  began. 

We  coddle  them,  counsel  them,  settle  their  bills; 

To  prosper  their  running  we  sweat  and  we  strive. 
They  follow,  as  we  did,  the  bent  of  their  wills. 

They  don't  do  what  we  did.     I  guess  they  '11  survive. 

Bend,  bend  your  backs,  brothers,  the  spine  's  in  them 

still. 

Being  fifty  years  old  is  the  grandest  thing  yet; 
The  age  of  wise  service,  of  disciplined  will, 

When  the  heart  does   not  change,   nor   the   stomach 
forget; 

174 


FIFTY    YEARS    OLD 

When  prudence  her  lessons  has  taught  and  got  through; 

When  choices  are  settled  and  courses  denned; 
When  what  we  are  doing  is  what  we  should  do, 

And  fifty  years  back  of  us  drive  from  behind. 

The  age  of  arrival,  of  wisdom,  of  light, 

Of  passion  grown  pale  by  affection  supplanted; 

When  men  know  enough  to  go  home  when  it 's  night, 
And  get — when  they   do — what  they  ought  to  have 
wanted. 

Not  so  young  as  we  were,  but  still  passable  men; 

Not  so  aged  that  all  of  our  story  's  yet  told. 
Come,  whoop  her  up,  brothers,  be  juniors  again ! 

There  's  lots  of  life  left  in  us  fifty  years  old. 


175 


THE  KINGDOM,  THE  POWER, 
AND  THE  GLORY 

Read  before  the  Harvard  Phi  Beta  Kappa  at  Cambridge,  June  30, 1898. 

WHEN  forth  the  shepherd  boy  in  Elah's  vale 
To  meet  Goliath  fared,  no  coat  of  mail 
Nor  sword  nor  spear  he  took,  nor  anything 
Except  one  little  penny-dreadful  sling. 
His  pebble  sped.     The  big  Philistine's  fall 
Gave  humble  means  a  license  once  for  all, 
And  helps  your  bard  a  warrant  to  construe 
To  launch  light  verse  at  learned  men  like  you. 

Masters  of  erudition,  chosen  sirs, 

Whose  knowledge  close  with  all  that 's  known  concurs, 

Who  taste  all  fruits  on  wisdom's  tree  that  grow — 

After  all 's  said,  what  do  we  need  to  know  ? 

Knowledge    is    power.     What    knowledge?     Power    for 

what? 

To  do,  or  not  to  do?    To  have,  or  not? 
Shall  learning  make  our  hearts  or  pockets  stout  ? 
Bring  things,  or  teach  us  how  to  go  without? 
Prompt  us  to  spare,  or  qualify  to  spend? 
Is  it  a  means,  or  shall  it  be  an  end? 

176 


THE    KINGDOM,    THE    POWER 

All  day  the  Hindoo  sits  and  contemplates 
His  navel.     Earth  spins  onward  while  he  waits. 
No  loss  of  time  his  brooding  hope  concerns; 
His  concentrated  thought  serves  all  his  turns — 
His  food,  the  least  that  soul  and  body  joins; 
His  raiment,  but  the  clout  about  his  loins. 
To  think  is  all  he  asks;   indeed,  it 's  more — 
He  only  seeks  to  keep  an  open  door 
Whereinto  may  perhaps  in  time  be  turned 
A  consciousness  transcending  all  things  learned. 
Heedless  of  force,  oblivious  to  fact, 
Broken  of  every  wish  or  power  to  act, 
Under  his  bo-tree,  rapt,  behold  him  sit, 
A  patient  mark  for  wisdom's  darts  to  hit. 

In  violent,  prodigious  contrast,  view 
Our  devotee  who  lives  to  put  things  through ! 
Intense  in  aim,  tremendous  in  attempt, 
He  dares  such  feats  as  wizards  might  have  dreamt. 
Prompt  from  a  bed  too  briefly  kept  he  springs 
To  giant  struggles  with  material  things. 
He  wrests  from  earth  her  treasures  and  her  fruits, 
Stays  time,  and  grubs  up  distance  by  the  roots. 
Titanic  in  his  hands'  resourceful  play, 
He  fits  to  needs,  a  thousand  leagues  away, 
177 


THE    KINGDOM,    THE    POWER 

Supplies  extorted  by  his  conjuring  brain 

From  mine  and  factory,  forest,  sea,  and  plain. 

As  nature's  secrets,  yielded  one  by  one 

To  searching  science,  meet  the  revealing  sun, 

His  hail  exultant  glorifies  the  hour 

That  still  extends  the  boundaries  of  his  power. 

To  have,  to  hold,  to  shift,  to  give  and  take, 

And  from  each  transfer  still  a  profit  make — 

That  is  his  life;   we  watch  him  and  admire, 

Yet  envy  not  his  toil  nor  grudge  his  hire. 

To  each  his  task:   our  civilization's  need 
Includes  things  as  diverse  as  love  and  greed — 
As  brooding  thought  and  bustling  energy — 
As  abstract  truth  and  prompt  utility. 
His  right  to  earth  is  best  who  best  can  use  it; 
His  birthright  man  must  justify  or  lose  it. 
This  we  should  learn,  then,  and  to  this  end  strive, 
Living  to  keep  continuously  alive, 
And  daily  meet  the  debt  we  owe  the  day — 
That  irksome,  wholesome  debt,  to  make  it  pay. 
Call  us  utilitarian  those  who  will, 
A  warrant  for  our  Yankee  impulse  still 
Stands  in  the  immemorial  decree 
That  linked  with  labor  human  life  shall  be. 
178 


AND    THE    GLORY 

For  liberty  and  progress,  hand  in  hand 

With  pushing  thrift,  have  gone  in  many  a  land, 

And  mastery  of  earth  and  nature  brings 

The  key  to  endless  stores  of  precious  things. 

Wealth  earned,  not  filched,  power  not  usurped,  but  based 

On  freemen's  choice,  are  mighty  tools  that,  placed 

In  fitting  hands,  spread  civilization's  sway, 

And  speed  the  dawning  of  millennium's  day. 

Be  honor,  then,  to  him  who  makes  the  field 
To  wiser  tillage  fuller  harvests  yield; 
Who  harnesses  the  lightning,  and  constrains 
Indocile  steel  to  save  the  fingers  pains; 
Who  teaches  us  new  wants,  and,  turn  about, 
Supplies  these  things  we  cannot  do  without, 
And  makes  us  hope,  so  much  do  wares  abound, 
There  '11  some  time  be  enough  to  go  around. 

To  those  devoted  souls  be  honor,  too, 
Who  steadfastly  the  quest  for  truth  pursue; 
Who,  rifling  history's  treasure-house,  forecast 
The  future's  hopes  and  perils  from  the  past; 
Who  seek  creation's  darkest  depths  to  plumb — 
What  man  has  been,  and  is,  and  may  become, 
Whence  brought,  and  by  what  trail,  and  whither  bound, 

179 


THE     KINGDOM,     THE     POWER 

Asking,  they  wrest  its  secrets  from  the  ground, 
The  depths  of  earth  and  sea,  the  celestial  vault, 
They  dredge  and  sift  and  span  in  an  assault 
So  fierce  and  steady  that  the  hosts  of  night 
Fall  ever  back  before  its  fervent  might, 
And  Sol  each  morning  rises  with  a  shout, 
Surprised  at  what  those  fellows  have  found  out. 

But  honor  more  be  his  whose  instincts  own 
The  truth,  "Man  cannot  live  by  bread  alone" — 
Who  sees  in  righteousness,  far  more  than  wealth, 
The  prime  essential  to  a  nation's  health; 
Whom  neither  ease,  nor  quest,  sublime  or  base, 
Makes  inconsiderate  of  his  brother's  case; 
Whose  effort  is,  come  plenty  or  come  dearth, 
God's  will  to  learn,  and  see  it  done  on  earth. 
A  lack  of  sturdy  men  whose  aims  are  high 
No  surging  tide  of  plenty  can  supply. 
Doomed  is  the  state,  whatever  its  avails, 
Where  probity  falls  down  and  conscience  fails. 
Not  gold  nor  iron,  grain  nor  ships  nor  coal, 
Can  make  a  nation  great  that  lacks  a  soul. 

This  above  all,  then,  brethren,  we  should  know, 

How  by  our  growth  to  make  our  country  grow 

180 


AND    THE    GLORY 

In  that  true  glory  whose  foundations  lie 

In  justice,  freedom,  and  integrity — 

Our  country  whose  we  are,  and  in  whose  fate 

Our  stake  is  so  immeasurably  great, 

Whose  honor  ours  involves,  her  fame  our  fame, 

Her  misdirection  our  remorse  and  shame. 

Manila's  guns,  reverberating  still, 

Witness  how  well  her  sons  can  do  her  will. 

Beleaguered  Cuba's  marching  hosts  attest 

How  swells  the  love  of  freedom  in  her  breast. 

Whatever  befall,  God  grant  her  flag  may  fly 

In  sign  of  righteousness  and  liberty, 

Ne'er  at  ambition's  beck  to  be  unfurled 

In  triumph  o'er  the  weaklings  of  the  world, 

Ne'er  borne  in  battle  save  in  mercy's  cause 

To  spread  the  realm  of  peace  and  honest  laws ! 

May  Heaven,  who  gave  us  strength,  give  wisdom  too, 

Our  duty  teach  us,  and  what  not  to  do; 

And  so  on  force  may  moderation  wait — 

So  match  our  men  of  war,  our  chiefs  of  state — 

That  the  chief  fame  our  victories  shall  produce 

May  be  the  high  renown  of  victory's  use. 

So  be  our  arms,  our  flag,  our  future  blest — 

God  save  the  Great  Republic  of  the  West ! 


181 


Iw 
I 


THE    STRENUOUS    LIFE 

Read  at  the  Harvard  Club  Dinner,  New  York,  1900. 


WENT  down  East  to  a  football  match;  great  game; 

'11  go  again. 
There  played  a  chap  they  called  McBride,  who  had  the 

strength  of  ten, 

And  divers  more,  whose  names  I  miss,  but  they  seemed 
to  be  all  good  men. 


Thirty  men  or  thereabouts  competed  there  that  day. 
Thirty    thousand    anxious    souls    observed   their   urgent 

play. 
All  Harvard  went  prepared  to  yell;  all  Harvard  stayed  to 

pray. 

Bless   me,   how   those   lusty   youths   toiled   round   that 

leather  sphere, 
Lined  up,  rushed,  tackled,  bucked,  and  strove  with  ardor 

most  severe, 
While  earnest  lads  in  moving  tones  besought  the  crowd 

to  cheer ! 

182 


THE    STRENUOUS    LIFE 

Governors,    senators,    ministers,    judges,    presidents    of 

banks, 
College    presidents,    mothers    of   families,    matrons    and 

maids,  on  ranks 
Of  benches  steeple-high,  sat  round  and  watched  those 

football  cranks. 

I  sat  next  to  a  mossy  fossil,  forty  years  old,  named  Jim. 
Neither  one  of  us  knew  the  game,  but  we  went  with 

purpose  grim 
— Yet  humble  too — to  see  the  show  and  learn — if  it  took 

a  limb. 

"They  say  it's  dangerous!"  said  I,  but  he  said,  "I 
don't  care; 

We  '11  get  back  seats.  I  understand  there  '11  be  police- 
men there." 

So  there  we  sat  and  viewed  the  whole  preposterous 
affair. 

It  turned  out  safe  enough  for  us,  and  as  for  those  young 
chaps 

Who  played,  they  all  made  nothing  of  astonishing  mis- 
haps, 

Enduring  superhuman-seeming  strains  without  collapse. 

183 


THE    STRENUOUS    LIFE 

They  'd  kill  a  player  frequently,  and  on  his  corpse  would 
pile 

A  score  of  them,  and  then  pile  off,  and  he  'd  get  up  and 
smile, 

And  kick  the  ball;  the  blessed  crowd  all  hollering  mean- 
while. 

A   player  'd   get   the   ball   and   run;     another,   just    as 

fleet, 
Would   grab   him   passing,    ankle-high,    and   throw   him 

forty  feet. 
He  'd  land  upon  his  head,  but  still  continue  to  compete. 

"Sure   that   one's   dead,"    I'd   cry;     and   Jim— "What 

odds  !  there  's  plenty  more. 
What  stubborn  brutes  those  Yale  men  are !      Why  can't 

our  chappies  score?" 
"Hit  Daly  's  got  the  ball!    Now  go!     Down ?     Bless  me ! 

What  a  bore!" 

Our  beings  to  their  cores  were  stirred  that  day  by  those 

young  men, 

Egregious  heroes  doing  stunts  far  too  sublime  for  pen. 
Down  to  Yale's  one-yard  line  they  fought;    Yale  fought 

them  back  again. 

184 


THE    STRENUOUS    LIFE 

"And  all  that  work  and  no  one's  game !"  sighed  I  as  we 

turned  away. 
"They  jolly  well  got  their  exercise,  you  bet,"  said  Jim, 

"this  day. 
In  the  strenuous  life  'tisn't  wins  that  count,  so  much  as 

how  hard  you  play. 

"  Don't  bother  about  what 's  gained,  or  whether  you  wal- 
lop the  proper  man. 

In  the  strenuous  life,  to  do  hard  things  in  the  hardest 
way  is  the  plan, 

And  to  keep  the  biggest  possible  crowd  as  crazy  as  ever 
you  can." 

"Poor  liver-saddened  old  croak,"  said  I,  "whose  thews 

have  lost  their  power; 
Whose  muscles  are  soft  and  his  spunk  collapsed,  and  his 

spirit  subdued  and  sour, 
Grand  is  strife  of  the  strenuous  life,   and  the  world's 

best  hope  in  this  hour!" 

"  Granny ! "  said  he,  "  those  were  fine  young  lads,  and 

vigorous  through  and  through. 
They  put  commendable  snap,   I   own,   in  the   singular 

things  they  do. 

185 


THE    STRENUOUS    LIFE 

Still  granting  a  sport  is  a  right  good  sort,  need  we  make 
it  religion  too? 

"Must  we  add  to  the  cross  we  Ve  had  so  long  another 

upright  pole, 
And  shove  the  bar  along  a  bit,  till  it 's  what  they  call  a 

goal, 
And  say  you  must  drive  between  the  posts  as  you  hope 

to  save  your  soul? 

"There  's  more  to  life  than  hustling,  man,  though  hus- 
tling has  its  place, 

There 's  virtue  in  contentment  still;  tranquillity 's  a 
grace; 

According  to  his  legs  and  lungs,  must  each  man  set  his 
pace." 

I  Ve  thought  about  it  often  since,  and  doubtless  shall  again. 

The  strenuous  life  's  a  tip-top  thing,  I  guess,  for  strenu- 
ous men 

Whose  necks  are  short,  and  whose  heads  are  hard,  and 
who  have  the  strength  of  ten. 

They  're  skittish  creatures  anyhow;  unless  they  have 
due  vent 

186 


THE    STRENUOUS    LIFE 

We  '11  have  them  putting  up  on  us  with  maybe  good 
intent, 

Hair-raising  jobs,  to  which  we  could  not  possibly  as- 
sent. 

To  get  them  in  between  the  shafts  and  let  their  shoul- 
ders feel 

The  public  load,  's  a  scheme  that  well  to  prudence  may 
appeal. 

While  we,  the  timid,  stand  by  to  clamp  on  brakes  and 
shoe  the  wheel. 

Our  strenuous  friends  who  can't  be  cured,  let  them  be 

strenuous  still. 
If  they  '11  be  strenuous  to  our  taste,  we  '11  cheer  them 

to  their  fill, 
And  plank  our  dollars  duly  down  to  pay  their  long,  long 

bill. 

But  as  for  us,  the  meek  and  mild,  our  racket 's  to  ad- 
here, 

To  docile  virtue's  modest  path,  nor  let  ambition  queer 
Our  sense,  nor  ever  lure  us  off  a  strenuous  course  to 
steer. 

187 


THE    STRENUOUS    LIFE 

To  pose  as  strenuous  half  a  day,  and  spend  a  week  in 

bed 
Would  never  do;    we  'd  lose  our  jobs;    our  babes  would 

wail  unfed. 
Better  to  save  our  puny  strength  to  earn  our  daily  bread. 

About  one  strenuous  man  to  every  thousand  folks  is 

right. 

Five  hundred  lean  and  vigilant  to  keep  him  aye  in  sight; 
Five  hundred  fat  to  sit  on  him  hard  when  he  happens 

to  want  to  fight. 


188 


WHAT    FOR? 

Read  at  the  Harvard  Dinner  in  New  York,  January  31,   1908. 

WHAT  do  we  go  to  Harvard  for? 
What  is  it  all  about? 
Our  fathers  knew  of  something  there 
They  thought  it  worth  our  while  to  share; 
Something  we  think  our  boys  can't  spare, 
So  they  go,  too;   and  all  the  more 
The  riddle  presses  "What 's  it  for?" 
What 's  in  Harvard  that  men  misdoubt 
'Twere  futile  thrift  to  do  without? 

Wisdom  's  there  for  youth  to  get: 

Follies  galore  to  do. 
Did  ever  youth  learn  wisdom  yet 

But  glanced  at  Folly  too? 
Between  the  covers  of  books 

Stands  knowledge  in  noble  store, 
But  it 's  not  all  there;   it 's  everywhere: 
And  to  learn  to  know  its  looks, 

And  find,  and  use  it  more  and  more, 

Is  what  we  go  to  Harvard  for. 
189 


WHAT     FOR? 

To  get  in  touch  with  many  men, 

And  to  get  close  up  to  a  few: 
To  make  wise  marks  with  a  doubtful  pen; 

And  to  guess,  and  have  it  come  true. 
To  learn  to  make  food  and  drink 

With  labor  and  mirth  agree; 
To  learn  to  live,  and  learn  to  think; 

And  to  learn  to  be  happy  though  free — 

These  at  Harvard  seek  our  Youth, 

Nor  in  their  seeking  fail. 
And  they  gain  betimes  the  vision  of  truth; 

And  they  play  some  games  with  Yale. 
If  they  don't  'most  always  win, 

The  reason  's  easily  shown; 
The  board  at  home  's  so  rich  in  fare 
They  can't  get  hungry  enough  to  care 
With  due  concern  and  enough  despair, 

Who  gets  contention's  bone. 


190 


TO    PRESIDENT    LOWELL 

Read  at  the  Harvard  Dinner  in  New  York,  January  28,  1910. 

DEAR  Sir,  to  this  aspiring  town 
That  bursts  its  belt  off  every  year, 
And,  paved  with  shekels,  thrusts  its  crown 
Aye  to  the  stars  more  near, 

Thrice  welcome  !  First,  because  you  're  you, 
And  next,  because  you  're  Harvard's  chief, 

And  third — there  's  something  you  might  do, 
We  think,  for  our  relief. 

The  buildings  here  have  grown  so  tall, 
They  somehow  tend  to  dwarf  the  men. 

Ere  Harvard  graduates  seem  small, 
Please  stock  us  up  again ! 

The  West,  the  South,  the  Nor-nor-west, 
South-west,  and  all  the  hungry  East, 

Keep  dumping  in  on  us  their  best 
To  share  our  civic  feast. 

From  Ind.  and  Wis.  and  Mich,  and  Minn., 
The  Slope,  the  Rockies,  and  the  Soo, 
191 


TO    PRESIDENT    LOWELL 

And  eke  from  Texas,  folks  surge  in, 
To  show  us  how;   and  do. 

Ohio  man  and  railroad  king, 

Miner  and  steel  man,  men  with  rolls, 
Smart  men  from  everywhere  here  bring 

Their  wits  to  try  our  souls. 

If  Harvard's  chin  's  to  be  upheld 
In  this  competing  flood  of  powers, 

Some  special  orders  must  be  filled, 
And  this,  please,  Sir,  is  ours.    - 

Oh  Dr.  Lowell,  train  and  teach 

And  send,  oh,  send,  to  help  us  here, 

High  minds,  bold  hearts,  with  gift  of  speech 
Preferred,  and  vision  clear. 

One  Joseph  Choate  each  twenty  year, 

One  Carter  every  twenty  too, 
And  once  a  cycle  should  appear 

A  Roosevelt;   one  will  do. 

More  Huntingtons — we  need  them  sore, 
To  train  the  town  in  works  of  grace — 
192 


TO    PRESIDENT    LOWELL 

More  Beamans,  Baldwins,  Bulls,  and  more 
McKims  to  deck  its  face. 

"More  of  the  same,"  our  order  runs — 
The  same  old  stock  that  must  not  fail, 

Articulate  with  speech  or  guns, 
To  make  the  truth  prevail. 

Articulate  to  balk  the  swine, 
To  call  the  money-mad  to  heel, 

To  make  an  old  tradition  shine, 
And  back  up  faith  with  zeal. 


193 


THE    OLD    STOCK 

Read  at  the  Harvard  Dinner  in  New  York,  March  24,  1911. 

NOW  in  the  shade  for  a  moment's  space  reposes 
(This  is  just  a  figure  for  he  's  on  another  ramp), 
He  who  but  lately  was  his  country's  Moses, 

Fetching  us  along  on  the  road  we  've  got  to  tramp. 

What  Harvard  hand  shall  be  next  to  grasp  the  throttle  ? 

What  Harvard  voice  the  rising  faiths  expound? 
Who  in  the  corner  hold  the  sponge  and  bottle 

While  our  democracy  fights  another  round? 

Old  are  the  issues,  known  since  time's  beginnings, 
Right  of  man  and  right  of  thrift  drifting  into  strife; 

Right  of  the  bold  to  have  and  hold  his  winnings; 
Right  of  the  worker  to  keep  his  hold  on  life. 

Need  is  of  men,  who,  all  men's  needs  discerning, 
Practise  to  make  come  peaceably  what  must; 

Lovers  of  men,  whose  love  is  armed  with  learning; 
Leaders  of  men,  whose  wisdom  men  can  trust. 

Not  so  much  heroes  we  need  as  steady  drivers, 

Handy  with  brakes  when  there  's  peril  in  our  speed; 

194 


THE    OLD     STOCK 

Prompt  to  yield  a  fair  half  the  road  to  all  and  divers; 
Stubborn  with  a  stiffened  back  against  stampede. 

Such  men  as  he  we  lately  lost  and  mourn  for,* 
Rugged  and  bountiful,  bold  and  wise  to  plan, 

Strong  in  the  faith  and  the  service  he  was  born  for, 
Stanch  for  the  weal  and  honor  of  the  clan. 

Stock  of  the  Puritans,  from  ocean  spread  to  ocean, 
111  be  the  time  when  your  consecration  fails ! 

Now  when  these  rival  needs  threaten  such  commotion, 
Whose  hand  than  yours  should  truer  hold  the  scales ! 

Years,  years  ago  your  fathers  built  a  cradle; 

Rocked  in  it  all  of  us,  drew  us  to  their  heart; 
Down  into  wells  of  truth  freely  dipped  the  ladle; 

Gave  us  to  drink  and  made  us  of  themselves  a  part. 

Heirs  of  the  Puritans,  compact  of  their  spirit, 

Nursing  in  liberty  strong  souls  of  men, 
Proof  against  hysteria  and  never  used  to  fear  it, 

Yours  be  to  make  the  old  flame  blaze  again. 

Ill  wins  the  winner  who  tramples  on  his  fellow, 
Sore  are  the  gains  that  no  service  done  redeems; 

*J.  J.  H.,  ob.,  January  5,  1911. 
195 


THE    OLD    STOCK 

Futile  must  still  be  the  demagogue,  his  bellow, 

Save  when  the  grafter  has  carried  through  his  schemes. 

Curbs  for  the  grasping,  then,  but  chances  for  the  able, 
Cheers  for  the  faithful,  whatever  task  they  find; 

Men  can't  be  fortunate  nor  institutions  stable, 
Save  as  they  do  their  part  in  lifting  up  mankind. 

Out  on  the  sky-line  there,  looms  our  flying  Dutchman. 

Sharp-eyed  for  tasks  that  other  hands  neglect; 
No  duty  's  safe  for  us  to  shirk  with  any  such  man 

Warning  the  negligent  what  to  expect. 


196 


THIRTY    YEARS    AGO 

Read  at  Phillips  Academy,  Andover:  Commencement,  June  27, 1900. 

WE  learned  some  Latin  thirty  years  ago, 
Some  Greek;   some  other  things — geometry; 
Baseball;   great  store  of  rules  by  which  to  know 

When  thus  was  so,  and  if  it  was  so,  why. 
And  every  day  due  share  of  pie  we  ate, 
And  Sunday  under  hour-long  sermons  sate. 
And  thrived  on  both;   a  sound  New  England  diet, 
And  orthodox.     Let  him  who  will  decry  it. 

We  spoke  our  Latin  in  the  plain  old  way. 

Tully  was  Cicero  to  Uncle  Sam, 
And  Caesar,  Caesar.     Footballs  in  our  day 

Were  spheres  of  rubber  still.     When  autumn  came 
We  kicked  them,  chasing  after;   but  the  sport 
Was  a  mere  pastime,  not  at  all  the  sort 
Of  combat — strenuous,  Homeric,  fateful — 
Whence  heroes  now  wrest  glory  by  the  plateful. 

The  higher  criticism  was  an  infant  then. 

Curved  pitching  had  not  come,  nor  yellow  shoes, 
Nor  bikes,  nor  telephones,  nor  golf,  nor  men 

In  knickerbockers.     No  one  thought  to  use 
197 


THIRTY    YEARS    AGO 

Electric  force  to  haul  folks  up  a  hill. 
We  walked,  or  rode  on  Concord  coaches  still. 
Expansion's  quirks  stirred  then  no  fiercer  tussles 
Than  such  as  vexed  the  growing  vogue  of  bustles. 

Girls  then,  as  now,  to  seminaries  went, 

But  not  so  much  as  now  to  colleges. 
The  female  understanding's  scope  and  bent 

Was  thought  to  crave  a  round  of  'ologies 
Less  full  than  man's.     We  've  learned,  it  seems,  since 

then 

That  women  need  whatever  's  good  for  men, 
And  that,  though  boys  are  tough  and  girls  more  ten- 
der, 
Knowledge  is  power,  without  regard  to  gender. 

The  shade  austere  of  Puritan  restraint 

Showed  sharper  outlines,  may  be,  then  than  now. 

But  not  to  hurt.     For  now  the  old  complaint 
Of  joys  curtailed  gives  place  to  wonder  how, 

'Twixt  stress  of  sports  and  pleasant  things  to  do, 

And  waxing  claims  of  growing  knowledge,  too, 

The  modern  lad  gets  time  to  feel  the  joy 

It  was,  and  still  must  be,  to  be  a  boy. 

198 


THIRTY    YEARS    AGO 

A  checkered  joy !     Progress  is  man's  desire. 

And  boys  progress  with  swifter  strides  than  men 
To  greater  changes.     Little  boys  aspire 

To  bigness,  and  it  comes;   nor  turn  again 
Regretful  eyes  toward  childhood.     To  grow  strong, 
And  apt,  and  swift;   to  learn;   to  press  along 
Up  life's  first  steeps  and  glory  in  each  rise — 
That  's  boyhood,  as  it  seems  to  older  eyes. 

Time  dwarfs  the  bulk  of  most  material  things. 

The  giants  of  our  youth  less  monstrous  seem, 
Its  wonders  shrink  when  wider  knowledge  brings 

The  great  world's  standards  to  amend  our  dream. 
But  youth  itself  to  backward  glances  looms 
Up  bigger  than  it  is.     The  boy  assumes, 
To  eyes  that  comprehend,  the  form  and  place 
That  gathering  years  may  summon  him  to  grace. 

And  what  place  is  it  he  should  strive  to  gain? 

What  ends  achieve,  to  what  his  powers  apply? 
The  same  old  simple  precepts  still  obtain 

That  served  for  all  men  fit  to  pattern  by. 
Dear  lads,  we  say,  the  greatest  thing  on  earth 
Is  service :   that 's  what  justifies  our  birth. 
Life  can't  be  made  worth  living  to  a  shirk. 
You  can't  have  even  fun,  unless  you  work. 
199 


THIRTY    YEARS    AGO 

Go  make  your  bodies  strong,  your  minds  alert; 

Train  both  to  do  for  you  the  most  they  can. 
Life's  goal  no  runner  reaches  by  a  spurt; 

Doing  the  daily  stint 's  what  makes  the  man. 
And  making  men  is  Nature's  chief  concern; 
For  right  men  bring  things  right,  each  in  its  turn. 
Strive,  then,  to  help  yourselves,  and,  that  much  learned, 
Help  others;   nowise  else  contentment  's  earned. 

Oh,  money  's  good  to  have,  and  fame  is  sweet, 

And  leisure  has  its  use,  and  sport  its  joys. 
Go  win  them,  if  you  may,  and  speed  your  feet ! 

But  this  regard:   that  even  splendid  toys 
Are  only  toys:   the  important  thing  's  not  play, 
But  work.     Who  shun  the  burden  of  the  day 
Shall  miss  as  well  the  strength  they  gain  who  bear  it — 
The  fellowship  they  only  feel  who  share  it. 


200 


THE    PRUDENT    FARMER 

Read  at  the  Dinner  of  the  University  Farmers'  Club,  1906. 

A  LL  farmers  who  have  grown  discreet 
-**   Have  offices  on  William  Street, 

Or  Broad  will  do — 
And  farms  accessible  and  green, 
Where  air  is  pure  and  water  clean, 

And  with  a  view. 

This  city  life  's  not  everything 
Of  which  a  poet  likes  to  sing. 

It  cramps  a  man, 

And  drives  him  hard  and  wears  his  nerves; 
He  wants  no  more  of  it  than  serves 

To  push  his  plan. 

A  share  of  it  won't  hurt  him  much; 
It  profits  him  to  keep  in  touch 

With  other  guys. 

To  mark  the  upshot  of  their  strife 
And  get  some  of  it  for  his  wife 

Is  not  unwise. 
201 


THE    PRUDENT    FARMER 

But  to  be  always  hunting  loot — 
What  sort  is  he  that  that  can  suit? 

Out  on  the  cuss ! 

Ding-dong  down-town  and  rush  about, 
And  ding-dong  back.     Perpetual  rout 

And  ceaseless  fuss ! 

To  such  the  ticker's  baneful  click 
Sounds  sweeter  than  the  rippling  creek, 

Or  eke  the  birds. 

The  office  buildings'  tottering  height 
Beats  hills  in  his  distorted  sight. 

He  passes  words ! 

The  disconnected  farmer  man 
Has  this  defect  about  his  plan, 

That  average  fields 
Exact  attentions  more  profuse 
Than  profitable  to  produce 

Reluctant  yields. 

If  you  would  long  the  country  praise 
Don't  live  too  much  on  what  you  raise. 

That  way  's  not  best. 
But  let  the  city  do  its  share, 
202 


THE    PRUDENT    FARMER 

The  country  furnish  sun  and  air, 
The  town  the  rest. 

Or  mix  your  crops.     Like  one  I  knew 
Who  planted  roots  that  duly  grew, 

And  went  to  town, 
And  laid  him  in  a  thousand  shares 
Of  Anaconda,  bought  from  bears 

For  salting  down. 

He  phosphatized  his  roots.     They  did 
Uncommon  well.     The  stocks  lay  hid 

Waiting  advance, 

Till  roots  and  stocks  becoming  dear 
He  made  a  hundred  thousand  clear 

On  those  two  plants. 

Farming  's  a  gamble.     I  don't  say 
That  roots  will  always  act  that  way, 

But  when  they  do, 
It 's  apt  to  be  because  combined 
With  city  products  of  a  kind 

To  pull  them  through. 

So  every  farmer  that 's  discreet 
Hangs  out  his  sign  on  Nassau  Street, 
203 


THE    PRUDENT    FARMER 

Or  Pine  or  Wall— 
And  what  the  farm  denies  his  sweat 
He  works  his  wits  in  town  to  get, 

Nor  grieves  at  all. 


204 


THE    AUTOMOBILE    SPEAKS 

Read  at  the  Automobile  Club  Dinner  in  New  York,  December  20, 

1911. 


JUST  look  at  me !    Just  look  at  me ! 
I  am  the  motor-car.     Just  see ! 
I  own  the  road.     I  've  got  the  whole 
Rolled  earth  just  where  it  minds  my  pull. 
The  boldest,  biggest,  big  thing  yet, 
I  'm  here  to  stay.     You  won't  forget. 

The  horse,  poor  thing,  I  Ve  done  him  up. 
The  farmers  use  him.     Like  a  pup, 
Some  folks  still  keep  him  for  a  pet — 
He  is  a  pretty  creature  yet — 
But  when  it  comes  to  being  hauled, 
Four  legs  don't  go.     That  hand  is  called. 

They  say  war  's  going  by  the  board, 
As  arbitration  brings  accord. 
But  while  it  lasts  look  out  for  me, 
For  my  long  suit 's  celerity. 
In  war  be  prompt !     My  tires  may  burst 
But  still  I  'm  apt  to  get  there  first. 
205 


THE    AUTOMOBILE    SPEAKS 

In  peace — that 's  nearly  all  the  time — 
I  'm  great  beyond  the  scope  of  rhyme. 
Commodious,  docile,  swift  and  clean, 
I  fare  on  frugal  gasolene. 
I  'm  never  scared,  and  fast  or  slow, 
I  never  eat  unless  I  go. 

They  say  I  have  no  style.     They  may ! 
What 's  style  to  me !     I  don't  eat  hay, 
Nor  prance.     Lugs  have  for  me  no  lure. 
No  powdered  wig  on  my  chauffeur ! 
Plain  goods,  I  glide  where  pride  is  rife, 
The  herald  of  the  simpler  life. 

Efficiency  's  what  I  admire. 

I  haul  the  engines  to  the  fire, 

To  hospital  the  injured  wight, 

To  school  the  child.     By  day  or  night 

I  'm  there,  and  ready.     Whirl  my  crank, 

I  'm  off  as  steady  as  a  bank. 

The  roads  I  Ve  built,  go  out  and  see ! 
They  do  come  high,  but  that  must  be. 
They  're  worth  it.     They  and  I  contrive 
Enlargement  for  the  human  hive, 
206 


THE    AUTOMOBILE    SPEAKS 

Connecting  life  with  where  there  's  room. 
My  !    How  we  Ve  made  the  country  boom ! 

I  know  some  folks  still  get  along 
Without  me.     Well,  that 's  not  all  wrong. 
Trolleys  must  live  and  shoe  men,  too; 
There  's  work  for  all  of  us  to  do. 
They  say  I  'm  dear,  but  that 's  not  so. 
I  'm  cheap,  if  you  can  raise  the  dough. 

Go  out  and  look !     Where  do  you  spy 
A  better  money's  worth  than  I  ? 
I  'm  a  new  want,  and  wants  compete 
For  what  men  get.     Without  conceit, 
I  'm  not  afraid  to  make  a  pass 
At  any  want  that 's  in  my  class. 

For  see,  I  'm  not  a  thing  at  all, 

But  that  which  qualifies  them  all. 

I  'm  time,  I  'm  space,  I  'm  power,  I  'm  health, 

And  country  air  and  urban  wealth, 

Vision,  and  sport,  and  rest  from  strife — 

A  length  spliced  on  the  span  of  life. 


207 


FORTITER  OCCUPA  PORTUM 

Read  at  the  opening  of  the  new  Brearley  School,  November  26, 1912. 

PHE  Brearley  School  has  a  grimy  face, 
*     And  the  dust  lies  on  its  steps, 
And  signs  "To  Let"  its  walls  disgrace 
Like  the  smudge  of  the  demi-reps. 
No  little  maids  trip  in  and  out, 

No  waiting-maids  there  wait. 
No  mothers  linger  thereabout, 
And  say  "My  child  is  late !" 

What  dregs  are  these  in  Brearley's  cup? 

Oh  grief !     Oh  shame  !     Oh  sin ! 
"  Say,  kind  policeman,  say,  what 's  up  ? 

Is  Brearley's  school  all  in?" 
"Why  no!  the  Brearley  hasn't  ceased; 

Gone  up  she  has,  not  down; 
(I  miss  those  kids)  moved  three  blocks  East, 

And  seventeen  up-town!" 

Hail  comely  walls,  so  late  begun, 

Tall  reared  in  modest  pride, 
All  windowed  on  the  rising  sun, 

Or  on  the  sailor's  guide ! 
208 


FORTITER  OCCUPA  PORTUM 

Oh  joy  !     Oh  Jay  !     Oh  white-marked  day  ! 

Be  all  with  smiles  efate, 
That  Brearley's  will  and  Croswell's  skill 

Have  come  to  such  estate ! 

Make  bold,  oh  admirable  walls, 

The  young  ideas  you  house 
To  stand  up  firm  to  Fate,  her  calls, 

And  face  or  man  or  mouse ! 
The  Future's  mothers,  shape  them  still, 

Though  other  plans  advance; 
Girls  will  be  girls,  be  sure  they  will, 

If  they  have  half  a  chance ! 

Honor  be  yours,  wise  teachers,  you 

Who  all  the  maids  endow 
With  such  capacities  of  view, 

And  powers  of  knowing  how, 
Through  computation's  awful  snares 

Their  stumbling  feet  who  guide, 
And  post  them,  almost  unawares, 

On  hosts  of  things  beside! 

Shot  through  with  all  that  Grecian  thought, 
Or  Puritan  essayed, 
209 


FORTITER  OCCUPA  PORTUM 

Wise  with  a  wisdom  trial-bought 

To  lead  the  aspiring  maid, 
A  spirit  human  to  the  end, 

Uncrampt  by  learning  's  whim, 
Adviser,  scholar,  teacher,  friend, 

The  Master,  here  's  to  him ! 

Bright-faced  and  fair  the  Brearley  School 

Confronts  the  morning  sun, 
Strong  in  the  wise  and  gentle  rule, 

So  long  ago  begun; 
The  lively  maids  its  class-rooms  fill; 

Anon  the  handmaids  wait; 
And  strong  she  stands  in  friends'  good  will. 

Be  ever  that  her  state ! 


210 


CHRISTMAS,    1912 

From  Life,  December  5,  1912. 

MERRY  Christmas,  Merry  Christmas, 
To  the  whole  gyrating  ball ! 
To  Turk  and  Slav  and  Jew  and  Celt 

And  Teuton,  great  and  small ! 
To  all  who  dance  the  turkey  trot, 

And  all  who  dance  the  jig, 
And  all  who  pipe  for  dancing,  both 

The  little  and  the  big ! 
Go  whirl,  go  whirl,  oh  merry  orb, 

While  some  teetotal  spin, 
And  others  in  their  turns  absorb 

Champagne,  or  even  gin ! 
There  *s  a  time  for  sober  thinking, 

There  's  a  time  to  throw  a  fit, 
A  time  to  climb  the  heights  of  rhyme — 

My  brothers,  this  is  it! 

Bring  on  Thomas  Fortune  Ryan, 
Bring  on  Thomas  Nelson  Page, 

And  Thomas  Woodrow  Wilson  to 
The  forefront  of  the  stage ! 
211 


CHRISTMAS,    1912 

Play,  play  the  Monticello  reel, 

Ye  bandsmen  through  your  cheers, 
For  here  's  to  Old  Virginny,  ain't 

She  spry  for  all  her  years ! 
Go  whirl,  go  whirl,  oh,  merry  sphere ! 

Lo,  portents  in  the  sky ! 
When  everybody  's  turning  queer, 

What  use  is  it  to  cry  ? 
When  everybody  's  turning  good, 

What  can  we  do  but  shout? 
What  counts  is  how  we  feel  within; 

Not  what  we  do  without. 

Merry  Christmas,  Merry  Christmas, 

To  the  sinner  and  the  saint ! 
Do  your  Christmas  shopping  early ! 

Mix  some  red  in  with  your  paint! 
Get  greens  and  holly  berries, 

And  mistletoe  the  door; 
Send  Christmas  cards  to  all  the  rich, 

And  turkeys  to  the  poor ! 
For  the  aged  earth  is  spinning 

With  a  quite  unusual  spin, 
And  excuse  us,  please,  for  grinning 

At  the  kind  of  times  we  're  in. 


CHRISTMAS,    1912 

Lift  the  lid  up  just  a  trifle, 

Let  the  inner  spirit  call 
Merry  Christmas  !     Merry  Christmas ! 

Merry  Christmas  to  us  all ! 


213 


TO    AN    AMBASSADOR 

Read  at  the  dinner  of  the  Publishers  of  Periodicals  to  Walter  H.  Page, 
Ambassador  to  England,  May  8,  1913. 

"It  is  nip  and  tuck  in  these  days  between  the  gentlemen  who 
make  the  progressive  political  periodicals  and  the  gentlemen 
who  control  the  railroads  and  banks  and  trusts  and  their  em- 
ployees, to  determine  who  is  going  to  run  the  country." 

— From  The  Reflections  of  a  Beginning  Husband. 


A  CCLAIM  the  illustrious  day, 
V*    The  double-leaded  hour, 
When  Page  to  London  sails  away 
To  represent  the  ruling  power 
Our  country's  destinies  that  guides 
And  advertises  goods  besides, 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

Ferocious  was  the  fight; 

The  Interests  ruled  the  land 
And  held  its  treasures  tight 
In  hollows  of  their  hand. 
Despite,  or  otherwise,  the  law's  intent, 
What  thing  the  Interests  agreed  on  went, 
Nor  knew  such  word  as  "fail." 


TO    AN    AMBASSADOR 

Transpired  a  little  crowd 

All  loaded  up  with  noise, 
The  Periodicals,  that  was, 

That  grew  in  power  and  poise. 
A  spreading  crowd  that  swelled  and  yelled 
And  bellowed  ever  as  it  swelled 
The  Interests  to  assail. 

It  did  the  Interests  up. 

Behold  their  present  fate ! 
Contrition  in  their  cup; 

Indictment  on  their  plate. 
Such  helpings  as  the  Law  allows 
Cheat  on  their  board  the  old  carouse, 
And  leave  them  sad  and  pale. 

St.  George  the  dragon  slew. 

The  English  loved  him  therefore. 
They  '11  think  a  heap  of  you, 

Our  Walter  Page,  and  wherefore? 
Because  ambassador  you  go 
Of  us  who  laid  a  monster  low — 

The  Periodicals;   Us  Periodicals ! 


215 


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